Away
by Metroid13
Summary: Hold your breath. Stamp your feet. Run away. The savior of mankind's will to fight is broken. Sequel to Flight is Right. Takes place between The Demon Hand and Vick's Chip. Complete.
1. The Drivers

**Away**

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. References to copyrighted works and institutions are to be taken only as having occurred in a fictional setting, not a real one. Likewise, any and all depictions of real persons are to be interpreted as having occurred in a fictional setting and have no actual bearing on events that have transpired in those persons lives. The events shown in this story are utterly fictional.

Notes: This is a direct sequel to my earlier work called "Flight is Right." To understand what's going on here, I'd recommend you read that first, if you have not already. If demand is high for a synopsis of that story, I will provide one. "Flight is Right" can be read via my profile, or by simply browsing this archive.

This has been beta read by CIsaac and Camelot Girl. Thank you both, very much.

As I've said before, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. Here we go.

Chapter One: The Drivers

"Hey... kid?"

Silence. He looked over at the driver of the bus and simply shook his head. _No._

"Kid." And harsher this time. Sterner, with authority. There was a uniform behind the voice, after all. That had to give the driver some comfort.

And more silence just the same. The kid's eyes narrowed painfully. His head really hurt, and his face was faintly wet. The kid acknowledged that he must not have looked particularly imposing, after the state he was in for a minute or two after stepping onto the bus, but he didn't give a shit. Not one bit. The kid shook his head at the driver.

The driver was nervous. The kid could see that, sure. He sympathized. Really. He just didn't _care_ that much. The driver was a hispanic man, probably in his later thirties. A thick mustache dominated his face, although it faced stiff competition from his eyebrows, which seemed infinitely furrowed with worry. His brown eyes were settled upon the kid, and he only looked away to concentrate on driving. The current red light allowed him to fix his (admittedly sour) attention on the boy.

The kid, who was white, peered back evenly with his own startlingly green eyes. It was probably hard for the driver to tell that, though, given that those eyes seemed to stare through a veritable curtain of dirty-blonde bangs. His face, charitably describable as "pretty," uncharitably describable as "girlish", was unsmiling, but did not necessarily seem unfriendly. It was positively blank, in fact, which likely disturbed the bus driver, given the explosion of emotions on that face that he'd so recently borne witness to. At any rate, the boy was quite aware of the fact that his face didn't transmit "imposing" all that well. To offset this, he wore a cheap leather jacket around a stark white shirt that had a bullseye insignia emblazoned near his heart. Rather silly, of course. He was aware of _that,_ too.

No matter his choices of apparel, one factor succeeded at making him the sort of person you would think twice about when "messing with." The gun in his jeans. A Beretta 92 9-mm handgun. It was quite visible, and quite loaded. The boy had no intent of using it, though. It was just something he happened to carry around.

The kid and the driver stared at one another for a moment before the kid slowly shook his head once more. _I said "no."_

The driver frowned impotently. His eyes trailed over to the broken bus door, which had nearly been torn in half a few minutes before. The street-light turned green, precluding the driver from saying anything else. _Vroom vroom, _goddamnit. The boy leaned back against the seat he'd chosen on the bus and closed his eyes tightly. In truth, he wasn't a tough guy at all. Not that he was meantto be, of course, but it _was_ the truth. Tough guys don't run away from their problems. And the boy was running.

His name was John Connor, and every year, since the day he could understand what his mother was babbling on about, he'd _known _in his heart that he was meant to do great things. He'd been _told_ that he would be a general. And he would have soldiers. And he would have lots of guns and a head full of maps and doctrine. He'd had a _feeling_ that there'd be lots of death and terror when he got to be that general, because there was such a thing as nuclear weapons and artificial intelligences. And there would be such a thing as robots. And all of this was pre-supposed, from a very early time, as early as the year 1984. Yes, all of this, his doing great things, his being a general, and there being such a thing as Skynet, would not come _now, _and not soon, but later. It seemed to stretch forevermore into the distance, ungraspable, but there just the same. Always later, that final trial. That great crusade. Tt would be prudent for John Connor to be prepared for it, and his mother, Sarah Connor, took that preparation into her own hands.

And every day was a trial. A new training regiment. He had to keep things in his head so he wouldn't forget. Every weekend he was given a new book by his mother, until very recently. _The Art of War, _by Sun Tzu._ Infanterie greift an, _Erwin Rommel. _Guerilla Warfare,_ Che Guevara. _Steal This Book,_ by Abbie Hoffman. He thought they were mostly useless, to be honest. Those guys hadn't had to go against an enemy that did not know the meaning of the word "attrition." That had no sense of loss. You couldn't starve off an entire army of machines from their food stores, because no food stores existed. John was pretty sure his mother knew this, but she'd whap him on the head for complaining and would tell him to keep reading. He had to get a mindset for these things, after all. It was the psychology of those books that mattered, not the tactics. So every day was a new trial, something more to learn in making him the perfect military leader. Perfect. Always perfect.

But beyond that calm surface there was terror. Books were abstract ideas in paper form, something you can conceptualize, but not really see. Or feel. Those books, all of that training didn't prepare him for the real thing. Reading is one thing. It's something altogether different to be playing at an arcade, for example, and have someone made of liquid metal come after you with a pistol. Or to sit down for school and take cover as, once your name has been called, the substitute teacher turns out to be an assassin. It's something altogether different to hold a gun in your sweating, clammy hands and shoot bullets at pro-machine cultists, or gangsters. It's something altogether different to see one of your soldiers --one who idolizes you, no less-- take a bullet and bleed out on your kitchen table. The consequences you feel responsible for are overwhelming.

And beyond even those things there lies something deeper. Something you can't describe, which lies in your gut, which makes you feel so bad that you can _burst._ Everything feels different all of a sudden, when before they were just simple. You feel like a child in a body that's suddenly become way too big. You feel things you hadn't thought possible before, and they're very, very confusing for you (you're attracted to a robot, for example.) You feel painfully self-aware with every step you take, and some of those steps make you feel bad inside, even long after having taken them. The people around you call that feeling depression, but you don't care what it is, and you wish they'd just leave the whole thing alone. And on top of all that, you expect wonderful things from yourself. Hell, you feel like you can turn lead into gold, practically, and you're so _dumb-struck_ when you realize that it just_ doesn't _work. And... after a few tries you start to feel that _nothing_ you do can work.

So overall, absolutely nothing has actually turned out to be like you thought it would. Nothing.

Well. Take all of that and you get John Connor as he sat there on the bus. And to John, _all of that_ didn't matter anymore and wasn't worth fussing over, because now he was running away from his family, his life, and the very ideas that were supposed to make him so great. He was done with it all.

So nothing mattered anymore. Only him. And he was gone now. The only thing he had left were his thoughts.

--

Freedom is a loaded word, when you get right down to it. Not even loaded, it's... overflowing, practically. There are possibilities, routes, directions, opportunities, _everything imaginable _is at your finger tips when you have freedom. When you've spent your entire life knowing only one thing, and spending that life preparing yourself for it (and there's no time to stop and really examine it. That thing is coming at you as fast as you're coming at it,) a little taste of freedom is nothing short of dizzying. To have no sense of direction, and, at the same time, to have everything available to you... that's _also_ nothing short of dizzying. Both in good ways... and in bad.

John was free. And yeah, he was also pretty dizzy. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he was on a bus. A big bus, with a few people in it. A big bus which rocked back and forth as it continued to speed along the freeway, and probably over-taking the local speed limit while it was at it. It was because of him. Anyway, maybe _that_ was why he felt dizzy, but John was fairly sure it was the _drunkenness_ he felt at just having run away from the only life he'd ever known. For better or for worse, he was really excited about it. For the few minutes after leaving Cameron behind in the dust he'd really been on the razor's edge, at least mentally... with delirious happiness, abject terror, and sadness so strong he'd had trouble breathing. He'd allowed himself that (or maybe it'd been forced on him, who knew?) but now was the time to calm down. And think. Plan. Blank out the world and just think, dude.

...

Ok.

Hell, what to do? He pretty much had a free ride. Cameron Phillips, a cyborg assassin (_drop-dead hot_ and sort of human in her own ways_)_ sent back from the future to protect his life, was probably on his trail, but he knew he could evade her. He could also evade his mother, Sarah Connor, and his uncle, Derek Reese if they ever came looking for him, too. The vanguards of his destiny had swiftly become a mix of lovers and tormentors in the past week of his life. He'd miss Derek and Cameron. A lot. His mom, he wasn't so sure, and right then, on the bus, he didn't think he cared all that much about her either. At any rate, he saw them all as potential obstacles in the way of what he wanted. And that was _big_ in his head, right then. Really big. He didn't want to get screwed out of this, not ever. He wanted to...

Well, what _did_ he want to do? In truth, it was relatively simple. For now he'd lay low. Really, really low. Get a job in construction, probably, something low-key and ordinary. Work up enough money to secure himself a new identity, one that was curtailed to his specifications. No one else's. He'd go to a foster program, get a new family, people who'd actually love him and appreciate him. Have a father who was actually alive. A mother who saw him as a person, instead of a military asset. Heh, maybe even some siblings. _That'd_ be cool. Brother or sister, though? Maybe both? Shit... what would that _really_ be like? It was his long-term goal, anyway. He knew it was probably at least a year down the line, but he knew he could do it. He had enough smarts in him to do these things where some other hoo-haw kid wouldn't make it. He'd been in worse spots... although, to be fair, he couldn't remember just _being_ on his own. Yeah, when he was ten he was mostly out of the house, but at least he... had a house, right? Fuck it, he'd have a house in a year's time, AND a loving family to boot. He wouldn't act like a punk-ass kid this time, acting like a fucking criminal. He'd act like a nice kid, because he _was_ a nice kid, and he'd get someplace _nice, and warm... _loving. God, it made him shudder just to _think _about it.

And it'd be hard, yeah. Living on his own for a while. It'd be tough as fuck. But it wouldn't make him nuts, right? He wouldn't have to worry about some faceless assassin shooting him some day, or about becoming a grand leader of men, he wouldn't have to dwell on existential questions about unrequited love for robots and his own destiny... seriously, that sort of stuff? It got you crazy, man. Like his mom, _she_ was borderline nuts at times. He didn't want that _at all._ His entire life he'd been just sort of standing there, watching as things happened. He'd feel really bad about shit at times, but never really understanding any of it.

This week he'd understood. This week, he'd participated. And this week proved that this life would not only make him _crazy_, it _also_ proved that he was incapable of doing everything he, as JOHN CONNOR, was supposed to be capable of doing! So yeah, he'd ran away after that. Why bother staying if you know you're gonna fail, right? Doesn't make sense, after all. No way, jose. So, instead of all that, he'd do what _he _wanted. He'd always help people, he'd always do what he could for others. If nothing else, Sarah had taught him that you had to look out for people. John knew he was essentially a good person at heart. In a way, he was showing that goodness by leaving all of this crap. Skynet. Human resistance. He'd _fail_ if he tried that, he knew he'd fail! And where would humanity be then, hm? It'd be extinct. No, someone else should do this. If Sarah failed to stop Skynet, someone a lot more competent would take up the reins. John was doing everyone a favor by getting out of it.

Right?

Right, so here he went. Short term goals, today? Right now? Go to a party at 8:00. Rather funny, if you thought about it alongside his long-term stuff, but right then it was what he wanted. He'd heard about it in gym class and it'd be a good place to put himself for a few hours. Maybe get his first taste of normalcy, too. That'd be great. And, for the time being at least, that was John Connor's plan. And yeah, this was sort of a humdrum start to it all. Sitting here on a bus, doing nothing but thinking. He hadn't gone into this expecting fucking balls-to-wall action, though. That was exactly what he _didn't_ want. What he wanted was a new start, that was it. Start of a whole new him, of a whole new _era. _Change it all... free himself completely.

Brave new world out there.He couldn't wait to get in on it.

--

Susan Valdez growled as she swept the wheel towards the right, bringing the car just slightly out of the way of a garbage can that had been left to roll around in the street. Without hesitating she rolled the passenger window down and yelled "Fuckers!" at the group of people who were running after the can. And then she was gone.

And goddamn, that felt good. Her husband didn't care for it, though. Not that he was around to see it. He knew her well enough to know what was up when she started to curse at random.

"Honey, what was that?" Ronald said over the phone that was clutched between her ear and shoulder. He sounded distinctly resigned to "that", whatever he thought it was.

"Some punks on the road, dear," Susan replied, her voice going from revanchist and high-pitched to sweetness and sultry.

"Ah. Listen, honey, I think you're making a mistake here, y'know, with picking Steven up..."

She rolled her eyes. Of _course_ she was making a mistake. She _always_ made mistakes in Ron's eyes. Not the tragic, stupid sort of mistakes, though. They were the "Ronald's version of mistakes" mistakes. Things related to COMMON SENSE, which she sometimes --much as she adored her husband... sometimes-- thought he lacked.

"Not a mistake, dear. Common sense."

A sigh from Ron, "Just because a hotel and a police station were attacked by gangs consecutively doesn't mean a _school_ is gonna be next. Much less Steven's school. And isn't school already... out?"

Susan pressed down on the throttle. The sedan jumped forward with an exhilarating burst of speed. Her eyes fluttered tightly under the wind pressure.

"He has extra help on Thursdays, dear. And besides, it's a natural progression to target a school next, and even if it's not, we're not taking that chance."

"I don't _know_ if you got his latest report card, honey-"

"I saw it. What's up-" she swerved, "FUCKERS!"

"- it says 'in danger of failing' every course. That means he's in danger of failing, you know."

A woman was stalking into the middle of the road several hundred feet ahead. Susan, ever the pragmatist, started to wale on the horn, "So?"

A short silence from Ron. The woman --she was brunette, Susan could see. Brunettes thought they controlled the fucking universe-- settled herself ahead of Susan's oncoming sedan and waited. Susan grinned. She wanted to play chicken, huh? She could play fucking chicken!

"Don't you think, if you took him out of school, that would just make things _worse_?"

"No gun-toting son of a bitch is getting _my_ son, grades or no!"

"Honey, c'mon, think rationally here." Oh, whine, whine, whine, all he did was _whine _with that annoying voice of his.

"I AM thinking rationally!" On the sedan sped toward the brunette, unflagging in its course. The girl --drug-addled punk!-- did not seem to care.

"Sus, just take a deep breath-"

Susan's eyes widened as the girl pivoted herself forward suddenly, almost like a dancer would, and allowed the sedan to strike her head on. There was a hollow _thump_ as her skull hit the hood along with the rest of her body. Susan screamed. The car turned and nearly did a full 180 in the street. The girl's prostrate form slid off and flopped down onto the asphalt. Gravel started to run up against the tires, making a loud screech. Susan had half a mind to pull her foot off the accelerator, but eventually, after a lifetime of swerving around on the street, the car came to a halt.

"Oh... _shit,_" Susan said before any other thoughts could spill out to take that phrase's place.

Killed someone. Ron was yelling into the phone, but... for some crazy reason she didn't know what he was saying. Her ears were probably ringing. Susan was surprised to see --or feel. She felt it, didn't see it-- that the phone was still tucked against her shoulder. She killed someone. She looked out, her face crinkled with dreadful anticipation. The car looked fine. A dent in the hood. Not much else. A slight smattering of blood. She'd just killed someone.

"Oh, Je-e-e-sus."

"_Susan! SUS, you there?!"_

She ignored her husband's nasal, ever-demanding voice as she turned to see what she'd done. Body should be... yes, looking out the passenger side window, because... that was where the _body_ was supposed to be. She remembered, she-

The brunette girl was standing just outside the passenger side, deer-in-headlight eyes wide and staring. The phone slipped away from Susan's sagging shoulders. Oh. She'd been _so_ stupid. Seriously, _just look at that._

The brunette cocked her head and walked around the front of the sedan, toward the-

Steven, right, sure, she had to get Steven because the men with guns were going around shooting everything up and the schools were next so she had to find Steven, oh god, oh Jesus Christ in a fucking _HAND BASKET-_

The girl smashed her hand through the driver window and grabbed Susan's collar. HOW WAS SHE STILL ALIVE?!

A moment later and Susan was sprawled out on the asphalt herself. Her knees skidded horribly, leaving a thin trail of bloody ichor on the street. She groaned in pain as the car started up. Her cellphone clattered to the ground right next to her. Bitch probably chucked it. Crazily enough, it wasn't even broken. Just scratched.

"SUSAAAAN!"

The sedan, which had cost Susan upwards 30,360 dollars (and something-something in tax. Ron would know. It_ also _hadn't even been fully paid off yet), drove away. Susan groaned again, suddenly hating the world, and let her head fall against the street.

"Fuckers," she mumbled to Ronald. Wasn't sure if he could hear it, and she didn't care, either. But then she decided that that wasn't enough, so she scooted the phone over to her mouth and said, "I made a mistake." And _then_ she fell unconscious.

--

The moment the bus driver had probably been dreading arrived; John stuck his hand on the thin yellow strip of tape near his seat. A short, cheerful _ding!_ sounded off, and a red light above the driver's head blinked on. Now, ordinarily, the driver probably wouldn't know who did it; he couldn't keep his eyes on everyone in the bus at the same time, John supposed. But he was _right_ there, next to the guy. The man turned his head slowly toward John, eyebrows raised in near terror. Then he looked back at the rest of the passengers. Empty, save for some guy in the far back. He was cradling a baby in his arms and looked about ready to pass out. New dad, likely. John was staring a bit himself, feeling, for whatever reason, envy.

Stupid, stupid.

He turned back to the bus driver. The bus stop was about a hundred meters away, John could see.

He cleared his throat and, for the first time since yelling the word "good!" to the bus driver (when he promised John that he'd keep driving,) spoke; "You, uh, gonna stop for me?" It was a simple question, which lacked a simple answer. He felt really bad, putting this guy in... this position. That was about all the sympathy he would spare, though. He felt like he had to spare as much of it as he could, actually.

The driver was silent. His eyes were firmly glued to the approaching stop. It was a simple bench with a pole nearby, sign-posted with information on the busses that visited here. It loomed into clear view... and then it was right there in the blink of an eye, right outside. The bus stopped. John turned to the driver again. He waited to hear the slight gaseous hiss of hydraulics that would signal the side-long door being unlocked. The actual door was untenable, having been destroyed by Cameron earlier on.

The driver pointed a hand toward said door, "That... thing is coming out of _my_ ass, kid," he turned to John, "I'm responsible for this bus. Please, just... I need your info. Just gimme your information, make it easier on us both." He stared at John's pistol.

John placed a hand on it, blinking slowly, "No. Let me out." Cleared his throat.

The driver set a hand on his forehead. He raised the other one to wave listlessly in the air, "I-I barely make enough as it is and you come _charging_ in here and some... some bitch tears the door off! That's coming out of my paycheck! Please, I don't..."

John shut his eyes. He didn't need this shit right now, not by a sight. Opened them, "I don't care." He removed the Beretta from his pants. "I'm not gonna point this at you, ok? Not yet. Open the door." Man, wasn't he smooth? This was a serious fucking downer, anyway. Now he'd feel guilty. Great. John started to absently run his eyes across the myriad of controls on the dashboard. Nothing he could really make sense of right now.

"Why are you doing this? Are you running from home? You kill someone, is that why you have that gun?" Guy was pretty fucking inconsolable, eh.

"No! I... dude, _please._ I... I don't wanna use this, you know? Just open the fucking door, just do it, ok? Please."

"Everything ok up there?" the dude with the baby yelled. Baby, clearly not liking the noise, started to wail. The man let out a squawk and diverted his attention.

"I'm going to lose my job," the driver said bitterly. He refused to look at John now, staring ahead at the suddenly foggy road, "If I don't pay, they take my job away. I can't pay."

He _knew_ the fucking risks here. Why was he doing this? Was he fucking stalling? For what...? Holy shit. Holy _shit,_ did these things have some sort of 911 quick dial?! Holy shit. He dropped the safety and snarled.

"Open the fucking door, I'm not gonna ask again!" Driver knew his _face, _he'd fucking describe him for the goddamned cops. He... he... he could ruin everything. Couldn't just up and _murder _the poor bastard, though! Right? _Shit! _

The gun lowered as John stood there, suddenly lost in anxious contemplation. His eyes went completely unfocused and dim. And he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the side-long door unlock. He stared, wide-eyed at the driver.

"Get out of here, you _un mierda_," the driver said.

John stared at the man for a moment. He couldn't do a damned thing for the guy. Why should he feel bad about it? Probably rat him out. No, this guy didn't deserve his sympathy. Not... _goddamnit... _He replaced the Beretta and said, "_Jódete."_

As he stepped off the bus and into the cold, open air, he wrapped his arms around his chest and absently wished something would happen to the driver. Something bad. And he also decided not to let his sappiness get the better of him from now on. This was life or death. Freedom or slavery. He wasn't gonna play games anymore.

_--_

**Alert. Alert. Alert. **

Cameron twitched. A quick sort of tilt of her head. Her HUD continued to flash insistently, as it had been ever since John's bus disappeared into the distance. A command-response prompt demanded her attention. She knew what it'd say. She didn't feel it was necessary to bother. Didn't _want_ to bother. She was already failing her primary mission. The prompt would have a list of recommendations, all of which would only serve to grind her face ever further into what she'd _so utterly failed_ to figure out on her own.

It was so simple. So easy, so _avoidable_, one could laugh at its lack of complexity. Cameron turned her eyes to the rear-view mirror. No one tailing her. No police. No road-rage infused driver. She twitched again. The prompt was getting irritating, she could barely concentrate her attentions on the road.

Of course he wouldn't commit suicide. That wasn't like John at all, he wouldn't do it even when presented with the means! If he'd wanted to take his life, he could have slashed his wrists in the kitchen as they talked earlier today! And yet, even after that, she continued to pay useless homage to Derek's fears, looking in all the wrong places. She knew John was dropping hints, but she didn't know what _kind_ of hints until he ran onto the bus. He was telling her all of those things, being _so_ open with her because he wanted to say good-bye. She'd _assumed_ he meant that metaphorically; that he would kill himself. But no, he meant it _literally,_ extracting himself from what he saw to be an undesirable situation.

Before that, before that incredible realization (that smack to the face), she'd drunk from his openness, his emotion for her. It was so empowering to have him tell her those things, to give clarity to what she'd been so confused over for weeks now. She was anomalous. A quirk. Oddball, kook. Not in her human sensibilities, but _because_ of them. There were always problems with the new series'... they'd develop... oddities. Need for sexual stimulation, undue attention to hair, affinity for sunglasses, gaining pleasure for death... and now love? It was completely possible. The TOK-715 CSM 121® was built for deep infiltration procedure, relying on model's deceptively frail constitution and beautiful physical qualities to disarm enemy combatants. The chip was modified, far more than any model previous. They'd placed things in it that simply opened more doors, more awareness.

You go along the tree long enough and you'll get to a certain branch. Always. A quirk. Love. Attraction. An oddity. She'd developed a quirk. She felt things for that boy that she hadn't even considered before now. She could love. Fully capable of it, obviously. Inferior models like the T-888 were built, in some instances, to fully exhibit love, albeit unto their target. But to love fully due to one's volition? Of free will? She hesitated to think that it had gone that far with John, but it was definitely something she should not have been feeling normally. The "big talk" with John had been all she'd hoped for, and more. It had opened her eyes.

She cared for him. Beyond her programming's dictations, she cared for him as _human_ and as _mind, _rather than simply as objective. That would have unforeseen problems. And benefits.

One benefit was that, now, she was all the more dedicated to _finding him and making sure he'd never run away ever again. _They'd really been so foolish in not having assumed that to begin with.

She sighed and swept her hand over the controls of the car for a second. She wanted some music. She found it oddly calming, despite the fact that it sometimes prompted her to feel like dancing.

Had to find the bus. She'd taken down the number. **CLA147. **That was John's bus. Ever since they'd begun using the bus system to get to school, she'd downloaded and mapped the entirety of the LA transit system into her files. She knew the pathway this bus would take, it was all a matter of overtaking it before John escaped again. She was quite fully in pursuit mode by now. As soon as she'd see the bus, for example, she'd immediately grid-map it for escape routes, then for average speed and probability of easy commandeering. The gas tank location and bullet-piercing factor would be of particular import-

**Error.**

_No, no._ Don't even think about that. Pursuit mode. Termination tactics were not even necessary here. Far from necessary. But they were like close cousins, really, pursuit and summary termination, so very much tied to one another. She couldn't help those thoughts from entering her chip. There wasn't much she could do other than be self-conscious of it. Constant reminding. That, too, would be distracting.

Music.

She dialed through stations, picking up on the various genres near-instantly as they sounded off. Eventually her hand eased. Music, loud, cheerful and melodious, filled the car. It switched quickly to a more understated tune as the singer began. Cameron smirked lightly. The lyrics resonated as oddly ironic for her.

_"We'll meet again... don't know where... don't know whe-e-e-en! But I know we'll meet again... some sunny da-a-a-ay..."_

She nearly jerked as her cellphone started to vibrate. She methodically drew it out from her pocket and checked the ID.

It read "MOM."

She briefly considered ignoring it. That would only hasten their return from Sacremento, though, if contact with John suddenly ceased. Cameron wanted as much time as possible to get him back before _they_ came back. It would simply be easier that way.

_"Keep smiling through... just like you... always doooo! Til' the blue skies drive the dark clouds awaaaay."_

"Hello," she said, thumbing the green phone icon and holding the cellphone to her ear. There was a bus ahead. She quickly magnified her visual sensors... Not John's.

Sarah's voice responded, "It's about time, Tin Miss. John's phone broken?"

"It's out of batteries," Cameron said after a moment's hesitation.

"Oh. Everything alright there?"

"Everything is fine. Where are you?"

_"So will you please say 'hello', to the folks that I know. Tell them... I won't be loooong!"_

"Mather Airport, still waiting on the terminal to get off. Been here two hours." Sarah was a confusing person more often than not. Her words suggested annoyance with the situation, but her tone said otherwise. She didn't care, evidently.

Cameron shrugged to no one in particular, "Anything else. We're both alright on this end."

"Yeah, let me... talk to John."

_"They'll be happy to knoooow, that as you saw me goooo, I was siiiinging this sooong."_

Cameron cringed. She mimed passing the phone to a non-existant person in the passenger seat and quickly brought it back. No other choice.

"Hey," she said, using John Connor's voice. For authenticity's sake she added a tiny bit of weariness to "his" tone.

"Hi, honey. I... I love you."

Cameron blinked. "I-I do too, mom. What's up?"

_"We'll... meet again... don't know where... don't know wheeen!"_

"Yeah, that was pretty sudden, wasn't it? Well, Derek's been giving me food for thought, and things are a bit more... rational for me, now. Clearer. I just want to... apologize. For having acted so harsh to you. It wasn't right... at all."

Cameron could only think _If only he'd waited._ She said, "Oh... I mean, it's _ok,_ mom... I know..." She paused. Intentionally. It's what he would have done. A chorus interjected along with the rest of the lyrics, repeating the refrain.

"No, it's not ok. You did what you could in the situation you were in yesterday, and I wasn't forgiving at all. I'm afraid of losing you... John. I'm so afraid it hurts sometimes, and for you to tell me those things... I didn't know what to think. I _didn't_ think. It was wrong, it hurt you when you were already in bad shape, and I... I just want to say that it won't happen again. You can spread your wings. I promise you that. You can talk to me about anything, John. I know you might be feeling down right now, but you can talk to me about it. I'm just a phone call away, I promise you. I won't ever say no."

Sarah paused, as though to chew through the speech in her mind, see what was wrong with it, what were lies and what was genuine. Her sorrow for having overreacted at her son was palpable. That much was certain to Cameron, but she wasn't so sure about the other half. She would continue to be controlling if she had anything to do with it.

And, maybe, she wouldn't get the chance. Cameron stifled a sigh and she made herself sniffle loudly, "God... thanks. I will, I'll... I'll do that. Thanks, mom."

A short silence from Sarah. "Alright, honey. I just wanted to let you know that I'll always be there for you. I'll always find you."

_"We'll... meet again... don't know where, don't know wheeeen!"_

"I'll always find _you._" Yes, that felt appropriate. Humans tended to be cyclical in the ways they conversed. For dramatic effect only or out of appreciation for the opposite speaker, she barely knew. It sounded appropriate, though.

"I love you, John. Always remember that. See you soon."

"Bye."

"_But we'll always meet again some sunny daaaaaaay!"_

_Click._ Cameron stared at the phone for a moment, as though it were something more than it simply was. Conveyer of messages. If only. Why couldn't he have been there to hear all that? That was what she'd do. She'd repeat the entire conversation, verbatim, simply by manipulating the phone, to John when she caught up with him. Yes. That would work _very_ well, she could see nothing which was wrong with it. At all. With a slight, purposeful sigh she replaced the phone and looked up.

**CLA147.**

_Screeeeech!_

_--_

Emilio Vanuela just about had a conniption when he felt a car smash into the back of the bus. A light sheen of sweat covered his face, wetting his formidable eyebrows, which in turn caused them to droop annoyingly against his eyes. He was blinking constantly, having barely been able to contain his rage even after that fucking _puto_ of a kid got off the bus. A little after the new father and his brat got off, he'd been free to yell and scream as loudly as he'd desired. Best, after all, to get it out of your system before having to face the music. Well, he'd _gotten_ it damn well out of his system when suddenly, out of no where, the damages bill suddenly got higher. The bus chugged to a halt. The other car let out a loud cough as it stopped as well.

_"Hijoputa!" _Emilio screamed, unbuckling himself from his seat. It was probably a woman. They were the worst drivers! _Every_ car accident he'd ever been in --none were his fault, of course-- and it was with a fucking lady. Why they could not stay safely away from the wheel, he did not know. With hope she at least wouldn't be a long-haired gun-toting emotional _freak._ He stepped toward the broken door, remembered that it was _b-r-o-k-e-n, _huffed, went back to unlock the sideways door, turned around and-

"_Madre de dios,"_ he said softly.

Not only was it the person who'd broken the door to begin with, AND the person who was associated with the kid with the gun, AND the person who'd crashed into his bus... SHE WAS A WOMAN!

They stared at one another for a few seconds before she walked up to the door, destroyed what was left of it by way of ripping it off and tossing it onto the sidewalk, and stepped onto the bus.

Emilio didn't think.

"DIIIIEE!" He rushed over to her and lunged. The result was very much like what you'd get if, after having had one too many tequilas, you crashed your car into a steel wall. Vehicle destroying imagery was rather central in Emilio's mind at that point. At any rate, his head and chest rang like a pair of brass cymbals when he struck the girl. Every bone seemed to shake and recoil, and he was surprised that his skull didn't break apart in the end. It certainly felt like it had. He collapsed to the floor, eyes huge with surprise.

"Die..." he muttered. He kicked her listlessly. How was she able to do that? Just stand there like that, not even moving? She didn't even look fazed by his terrifying ferocity!

She stooped and grabbed his throat. It was nothing less than a vice, relentless. Hauled him up and stared blankly into his huge, cow-like eyes.

"Where is he?" she said. There wasn't even a hint, a teasing of emotion in her voice. It was gloriously to the point. She softened her grip to let him respond.

"Fuck-" was all he had time to say before she squeezed again, eliciting a wet gasp from the driver in the place of a word. She cocked her head slightly and looked him over once. Looked back at him.There was a very natural sort of glitter in her eyes, which was terrifying... because of what she was doing, and how emotionlessly she was speaking.

"Last chance. Where is he?" Released.

"I-I don't know!" he said.

She nodded, "Where did he get off?"

Emilio stared at her, babbling helplessly, "D-don't kill me!"

"I won't kill you if you tell me where you dropped him off."

"Y-you ruined me! I'm going to lose my job!" No, no, _no,_ why wasn't he telling her what she wanted to hear?! He didn't want to get hurt again, but he vented _anyway._ Goddamnit! _No!_ Stupid, stupid!

She nailed him in the stomach with her free hand, open-palmed. The pain Emilio felt was exquisite, like an art form, it was so masterful and unrelenting. He screamed unabashedly. Where did she get that _strength _from...? Unbelievable... Outside, cars went to and fro past the parked bus, their occupants totally unaware of his plight inside. He wasn't sure what was more unnerving to him, in the end. The boy's uncaring stubbornness or the girl's alien brutality.

Ignoring his whimpering she removed her hand and said once more, "Where did he get off?"

He told her where he got off. She processed this for a brief moment before saying, "Thank you. Did he say where he was going?"

"You bitch... you're both... bitches... _usted perra!"_

She did not hurt him this time. Instead, she released him --slowly--, and went into her jacket pocket for a moment. Emilio merely let his head droop back and stared at the ceiling. Everything was so shiny...

A moment passed and he suddenly felt something small and cool in the palm of his hand. He blinked and rolled it between his fingers.

The bitch saved him the trouble of squinting; "It's a diamond. They're a girl's best friend, and, in your case, very valuable."

She was bribing him. This would be more than enough to pay off the damages. How much were diamonds worth, anyway?! ¡_Madre de dios! _His eyes suddenly got a whole lot less blurry, and he held the thing up to his eye. It could be, like, rock candy or something, right? Could be a trick! But it looked so beautiful... the way light shined through its tiny, clearly cut form...

She went on; "Did he say anything?"

"N-no."

She nodded, "You got into a serious accident. A hit-and-run. You didn't see the license plate. You didn't even see the car. The teenager you saw wasn't there, and I wasn't there. If you tell anyone otherwise, I will find you, and I will kill you."

He blinked. "Y-yes, yes, of course!"

The girl smiled. It was a frightening thing to behold, watching that slackened, featureless gaze suddenly become friendly. "Enjoy the diamond."

She got up, turned around and, without a second glance, ran off the bus.

Was this a sign? Was God making him suffer and then rewarding him? For what? For whom? It was too confusing, and Emilio didn't even know what to think as he laid there, trying to regain mastery over his scattering thoughts.

Whoever these two people were, they were... odd. When all was said and sifted, it was hard for him to place them as... just evil. Not with the boys emotions, which were almost palpable before he got a bit crazy. Not with the girl's odd reward for his cooperation. In the end he was basically most glad over having escaped both encounters with his life, but he would have difficulty hating either one of them, looking back. The diamond had plenty to do with it.

And for all their faults, they both seemed ready to move hell and high water to get what they wanted.


	2. The Host

**Away**

Chapter Two: The Host

Disclaimer: Special thanks to CIsaac and Camelot Girl for betaing.

Zombies. Millions of them.

Clean zombies, bloody zombies, decaying zombies, armless zombies, legless zombies, shambling zombies, fast zombies, jumping zombies, tunneling zombies, dirty zombies, green zombies, pale zombies, red-eyed zombies un-eyed zombies, tuxedo'd zombies, casual clothed zombies, male zombies, female zombies, baby zombies, zombies, zombies, zombies. There were millions of them. They inhabited a blasted, horrific world of thrills and chills where no one was ever safe from their hungry, brain devouring maws. Human refugees tried (and usually failed) to escape the terror that was the horde, hiding out in barricaded buildings, underground sewers, making desperate, high-risk bids for ultimate survival. It was a dark, depressing world of fine brain dining, and humanity needed a hero.

Which was, of course, where Morris came in. He stifled a giggle as he blew another zombie's head off, which painted the screen with an interesting variety of head-related fluids and bits. There was no time to fixate himself on that, though. His chain-gun was calling incessantly, and no gorgeous graphics would distract him for long. The chain-gun continued to spew hot death into the zombie horde, cutting a swath through their numbers, its bullets uncaring for the un-life of those who were being slain by them. Within moments the entire group had been reduced to tiny little red pieces which now decorated the ruined street. A group of kevlar-vested survivors came out to thank him, but Morris, still high on the adrenaline of murdering untold thousands of zombies, killed them as well. Undeterred by his seemingly random spate of violence, the remaining survivors rained accolades upon Morris. They rewarded him with an expanded chain-gun clip, and he demonstrated his thanks by trying it out on the rest of them.

Zombie Destroyer 2007 was fuckin' a. It was without a doubt the best Zombie Destroyer since the series had started in 1999. They always got better, and Morris was quite the devoted fan. The game had come out yesterday, which, unfortunately, precluded him from going to school, both yesterday _and_ today. John and Cameron would understand... since, of course, he'd called in sick. Perfect excuse for a perfect two days of zombie... destroying. Christ. If only Cameron were actually here, in his house, destroying zombies _with him._ She'd love it, she wasn't like most other girls. Unlike most other girls, she wasn't obsessed with getting the newest shit from Abercrombie and Fitch, or... christ, Uggs or something. She could appreciate a quality session of unadulterated zombie killing.

He began another session of marauding on the next street. And seriously, how could anyone _not_ appreciate shit like this?

He was knee-deep in flying zombie limbs when his phone started to vibrate on his pant leg. Morris jumped up from his recliner with a loud cry, thinking, for just a split second, that someone was touching him. Possibly a zombie. But no, it... it was his phone. He could get so absorbed in this crap at times, mom always told him. You shouldn't be skipping school, it'll consume you! _¡Dios tiene misericordia! _Don't turn your back on Him! It's just zombies, mom! God...

He slipped the cellphone out of his pocket and checked the ID. "John."

John was no Cameron, but he could probably appreciate zombie destruction himself. Morris answered, "Hello?"

_"Hola, Morris. ¿Cómo estás?"_

Morris blinked. "Uh, John?"

"Yeah?"

"Oh, hey, your accent, bro, it threw me for a sec! Hi, yo, I'm, uh, good, by the way."

John chuckled. It sounded kind of odd, but Morris couldn't put his finger on why. Too high-pitched, like he'd been inhaling shit. "Cool. How's that game you talked about? Must be awesome, y'know, skipping two days of school 'n all."

Damnit, he'd told them about that? Well, yeah, of course he did. He couldn't keep his damned mouth shut, right? They were cool, though, not telling anyone that he was skipping. John and Cameron were awesome that way. "It's amazing, bro. Better than I could'a hoped for. What's up?"

"You busy?"

"No way, bro. You wanna come over and chill? You know, blow zombies away. It's great." He probably sounded like a little kid, but he didn't give a fuck. Zombie Destroyer, man.

"Dude, I'd love to, but I had something else in mind," the other boy paused for a moment. "You sure you're not busy now?"

John always had a sort of methodical way of dealing with things, taking shit into account, not forgetting anything. It was sort of weird, in Morris' opinion. He looked over at the paused TV screen. Well... yeah, he wasn't busy, it was just a video game, but... meh.

"I dunno," Morris said simply, "What do you got in mind?"

"I... uh, figured we could go to a party. It's in your neighborhood, I think."

Morris paused, jogging his memory. "B... ryant? That dude?"

"Yeah."

"Ehh. He's kind of a prick, bro." The guy really was. He didn't, like, not invite people to his stuff (they were usually open), but he was sort of arrogant and had high expectations of people. Plus, he just loved to drug himself up whenever he got the chance. Not that Morris didn't do that himself on occasion, but he was infinitely more sparing on his body than Bryant was.

John's voice seemed to waver, as if he couldn't decide on which tone he should use, "O-oh, so you weren't... uh, going yourself?"

Morris checked the time. Thing was supposed to go on at eight and it was like... five right now. He sighed, "I wasn't planning on it, but y'know, if you're going, then sure." Huh. Something weird about this... "Hey, uh, where are you?"

John was silent for a moment. "Just, uh... tooling around, y'know."

"So you're not at home, or something?"

"N-no, I'm by myself. I think I'll go over there early."

_Damnit._ Cameron probably wouldn't be there if he was talking like this. Were they fighting, possibly? Morris couldn't imagine some shit like that. "Dude, don't bother. Come over here, it's closer and Bryant would probably throw you out until eight. We can, uh..." John didn't seem to be in the mood for Zombie Destroyer. Goddamnit. Where was that deck of cards he kept around? And the pot, he supposed. Always the pot.

"Uhh, no t-thanks, Morris. I don't... well, I mean, I'm just gonna go over there for a while. You know? I'll see you there. We can talk 'n all when we're there, maybe get laid, I dunno. Drink. Yeah."

Morris blinked. "Haha, sure, bro. We'll do that." He rolled his eyes, although John sounded oddly serious. Obviously he didn't think well of his chances (most girls blew him off), but hell, it was worth a try. If only Cameron could be there... Oh god... He cleared his throat, the last idea in his head throwing a rather large lump into his neck, among other things, "Say, uh, how's it going with Cameron? Everything... alright?"

"Sure, yeah, we just got in a fight is all. If, uh, she calls you or visits you, we didn't talk, alright? Make sure of that. Don't tell her a thing. Alright?"

That was a tall order. John was his friend, though... Gah. "Sure thing, bro. Uh..."

"See you there. Can't wait, bye."

"Sure."

_Click._

Morris stood there for a moment in silence, absently turning the phone through his hands. Something felt off. Really off. John sounded... jeez, Morris didn't even know. He'd talk to him at the party. That'd be cool. Usually he went to parties and he never talked to _anyone_, so at least he'd have someone to talk to, and the whole thing actually did sound a bit fun. Man, he felt nervous. He'd talk to him there, figure out what was going on. If Morris could relentlessly annihilate entire hordes of zombie marauders, couldn't he at least figure out what was up with his friend? And possibly win the favor of Cameron for doing so? Well, hell yes. He could. Definitely.

Erm. Possibly.

--

John peered down at his watch, and then at the small, black-painted street address on the curb. **5:30 PM **and **1945**, respectively. This was Bryant's place alright. John looked up at the house, giving it another look over. It was nice, too. A lot better than John's (old) house, at least in terms of size. Sported a few more rooms going across its length, and three stories as opposed to the Connor two. The first floor was built with a solid brick foundation, which eventually gave way to shutters and hardwood. The top floor was decidedly smaller than its predecessors, and it seemed just a tad larger than John's room. Probably Bryant's, or the parents. The floor below that had two very large windows symmetrically positioned on the forefront of the home. The rooms those windows must have opened into seemed to be hallways. Couldn't be anything but, right? It really was rather big, and John couldn't fathom such a family wanting to own such a place if they only had one son... He was assuming that, anyway. You generally don't want your siblings involved in a blowout unless you're a tad irresponsible.

Beneath the splendor was a well-trimmed, but generally unassuming lawn. Not a lot of decorations; only one was a statue Virgin Mary standing over an equally small baby Jesus basket, off to the side. A hedgerow was lined up against the house, interspersed by a small sapling of a tree. A political sign, which looked incredulously new, declared "Voted Riordan in 2003 Recall." Seeing as how Gray Davis had been in the saddle for years now, John found it perplexing that the sign should even be there. Fixating on the past much? Some people just didn't know when to face reality. Driveway was empty besides a red, slick looking sedan. Probably Bryant's car. It looked really fucking expensive, and John focused on it for just a bit longer than he usually would have if he'd just been passing by. He knew driving. He was a great driver. He'd just never _owned_ one himself. What would that be like? Just concentrating on owning a car, not... not owning the human race. Pretty much inglorious, sure, but he just liked the way that felt... Owning a car. All you ever care about...

Everything was pretty quiet, all around? Like, silent. No cars, no kids anywhere. He was probably the first one here now... and would be for hours. It was probably stupid, you know, just coming here _way _too early, and unexpectedly to boot. He had to be inside somewhere, though. Anywhere off the street. Had to put himself somewhere for a while, where he could just collect his thoughts.

Among other things. Hell, if everything went his way tonight, he'd be doing a lot more than collecting his thoughts. Above having a safe, unassuming place for the night (if Cameron was the only factor you took into account,) he wanted to have _fun._ Do shit he'd never done before. Try stuff, possibly. Socialize, however awkwardly. Get drunk off his ass. Heh, what would that be like? Weird. Maybe bang some girl. Well, what would _that_ be like? Yeah, he was going into this with admittedly stupid expectations (more like wishes), but he fully intended to have a good time.

The _only_ good time for a while, he was betting. A release from all the stress of this week. Pure revelry. Then the hard work, the clean slate, getting by, getting to the foster services, etc, etc. Exactly as he had planned. This wasn't gonna be a regular thing for him. Exactly what _fun_ was. A once-in-a-blue-moon thing. And hey, Morris would be here! Hey, Morris. Maybe he could see Morris on-and-off after this, as long as the guy promised not to tell Cameron. That'd be nice. And what about Cheri? Maybe...

Nah. She wouldn't. Even if her...

John blinked and absently held his head. Ow, ow...

Even if her brother hadn't been hurt really badly (or dead or dead,) she wouldn't be here. No. She was...

Shaking, shaking. He purged the thought from his mind. Didn't want to think about Mike. That was stupid.

He started toward the door. It really _was_ a big house. As he passed the windows on the first floor, he could see a rather big living room (or what, an antechamber? _He_ called it a living room, but what did Bryant call it?), so it looked like there'd be an equally large party. That was great, sure...

He stopped by the door and frowned. Huh. Well. Ring the doorbell. Nothing to it, right?

The only descriptor John had for this guy was "prick," courtesy of Morris. Would this be more trouble than it was worth? John wasn't a sensitive bastard, and this jock didn't _sound_ all that freaky, but... Probably a regular kid, eh? John would be able to handle the guy, He was just wondering if it was more trouble that it was worth.

God, stop _complaining._ Just roll with it. He pressed his thumb on the doorbell. There was a slight buzzing sound.

John looked around for a moment. They had a nice, closed in porch, kind of like John's house. And, hey, a bench. Nice. He sat down and slipped his backpack off. Unzipped it. Carefully, he placed the Beretta handgun inside, away from where it could be seen if he ever had to open it during the party. He gave a brief glance to the sandwiches. All peanut butter, no meat. Preserved relatively well, and only one of them looked pretty well smushed. He closed up the backpack and waited to hear the door open. Leaned his head back.

God, when he closed his eyes like that it was... something else. It was like they didn't want to open again, _wouldn't_ open again. He felt a tiredness, a weightiness that hadn't been there before just... overcome his body. Telling his eyes to open as soon as the feeling was upon him was an exercise in futility. Just a second... a _few_ seconds, and then he'd get up again. Right.

When John opened his eyes again, the first thing he looked at was his watch. **6:57 PM. **Oh, christ. Bryant was certainly considerate. Or his ears didn't fuckin' work. John's eyes really didn't want to stay open now, more than ever before. Lethargy had crept up his entire body as he'd slept. Nothing seemed to want to move or... anything. But he'd killed enough time... and hell, what a way to do it. What better way than sleeping, right? This was actually a good thing. Now to see if Bryant actually opens the door this time...

He rung the doorbell again.

Waited about a minute. Then another. Rung it again. Waited a minute. He pressed down on the button this time and kept it there, which finally elicited a pounding sound from the upstairs. John took in a deep breath and wiped away the remaining traces of tiredness from him. It was really the exhaustion of the week that was doing this, but he could sleep when _he_ felt like it, goddamnit, not when his body told him it was time.

A guy appeared at the window and peered out. John looked over and barely caught a glimpse of the figure before it moved toward the door. John absently brushed some nonexistent dirt off his jacket.

The door opened, and a rather short, but well-built guy smirked out at him. Like John he had dirty-blonde hair, which showed signs of its beginning to grow out from the current crewcut he sported. Although it was difficult to tell in the beginning twilight, John could make out hazel eyes and a squarely set face. His lips seemed just a tad too long on his face. Beneath all that was a barely buttoned shirt. He was pretty damned sweaty, actually, and it really showed. What was... The guy --probably Bryant-- seemed about one or two years John's senior.

And he seemed unduly pleased with John's presence. John hadn't even talked to this guy in his life, and here it looked like the bastard was greeting an old friend. Bryant stepped out and the smirk expanded, "Dude, you're early. Thanks for coming, though, it's-" He stopped short and tilted his head. Eye's widened, "Oh, fuck! Sorry, I thought you were someone else!"

John, who'd been wearing a rather blatant grimace on his face, eagerly allowed a smile to overcome it, "No big deal, man. I, uh, heard about a party at school, so uh..."

Bryant frowned, "From who? Just asking, if you don't mind. I think I, uhhh, know you. John, right?"

John nodded easily, smiling, "Yeah, that's me. It was these two guys in my gym class, I heard them talking about it and I figured... y'know, what the hell, right? So, hey."

"Yeah..." Bryant's frown didn't go away. "You're kind of early, dude. It's not for another hour..."

John shrugged, "Well, yeah, I know, but... sooner the better, right?"

"Yeah..."

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Awkward Silence time, then. That probably meant Bryant was considering blowing him off until eight. He looked downright frazzled. C'mon, John.

"So, uh... who'd you mistake me for?" Not a great segue, but it'd have to do.

Bryant smirked and waved his hand dismissively, "Oh, actor friend of mine. He's probably not even coming."

"Actor?"

"Yeah, I was an extra in a show he did. Long time ago, not even sure if he's coming."

"Oh. Well... you need help setting the place up?"

Bryant hemmed and hawed for a moment, looking up at the top frame of the door, "We-e-ll, I don't _think_ so. I mean, we're just gonna basically hang out. Y'know? Mostly party and shit. Really, I'm kind of busy, uh, John. Not much is happening here. You're the first one here."

John's smile faltered slightly, "Well, uh... I don't really wanna wait d- out here. You sure I can't come in?" Christ, he probably looked pathetic.

Bryant's arm sagged down to his side. He looked peeved now, not just distantly annoyed. "You kick that guy Oxferod's ass, eh?"

John had to keep himself from crying out in pain, because it felt like an ice-pick was being driven into his fucking brain. Leon Trotsky, eh? It was because of Mike, he really didn't want to get reminded of that shit. His left eye twitched as he said, "Yeah. I did. W-why?"

"You fucking his sister?"

John blinked. "Uh. What?"

Bryant folded his arms, "Are you fucking Cheri Westin? S'that why you two went at it?"

Should he say yes? Was this a test? Holy crap. "No. I'm not..."

Bryant sighed, "Well, listen... when you rang? Guess what I was doing."

John felt really, really young all of a sudden. Much younger. Like... ten. This... this was... what was this about? Why the sudden change in the...? There was only one possible response, of course, "F-fucking?"

"Yeah."

John stared. He couldn't keep the words "you were?" from escaping his mouth. Oh. Oh, who? How? Where? Jesus Christ.

Bryant ignored him, "And I don't like getting interrupted just because you want to come inside _my_ house. So you can wait, alright?" He didn't even need to threaten violence. This guy was smart. He knew talking about Mike would throw up that sort of idea in John's mind. John could _take_ Bryant, of course. No fucking problem, but would a fight even be worth it?

John absently turned himself slightly away from Bryant. He had other things on his mind right then, other than fighting, and they were threatening to overcome him. Holy crap. Get this guy away. Alright. "Alright. Sorry, bout... you know..."

Bryant shrugged, "It's ok. I'll tell her you're sorry. You can come in at eight, right on the button, alright?"

He nodded. Huuuuh huh. Jesus. Bryant shut the door behind him. _Jesus._ He should fucking get out of here. What the hell was he thinking, coming here early and... He turned his head up to the third floor. _Christ._

How could anyone be that blunt? Throw up so many ideas in John's head, eh? What... what were they really doing? It felt like a wall had been constructed, like John refused to take what Bryant said at a face value. When he was younger, he had this _idea_ of sex as a tool only, to be used by Sarah to get people to do what she wanted. He'd seen it in clinical terms, before he developed a stupid-shit thing called hormones. Now it was like something ineffable. Well, they were... you know-whating upstairs! _Right there!_ Bryant _told_ John about it, that was fucking _insane._ Huh.

Why, why was he fixating himself on this, of all things? Sure, yeah. They were doing it. Not his business. Totally not. Bryant was a prick. But John would wait, yeah. Not his business. He didn't have to go in there. He should just wait outside. Wait and look around. Do nothing... wait... wait... wait... Be envious. Of what? Well, he couldn't put his finger on that. Just... envious. Weird, really. Huh...

He sat down on the bench and started to bite his right-hand knuckles. It was no big deal. He felt fine. He was gonna have a good time. And... sure, he was gonna be a bit more proactive in what he actually wanted now, but mostly, just a good time. Get what he wanted and leave. _Had_ to get what he wanted now. That was _big._

He stopped biting and got up to look at the top floor once more. Kept his ears open. Nothing to see, nothing to hear. Nothing.

Huh. He coughed to himself and sat down again. Man, what he wouldn't give for Cameron's clinical analysis right now, or his mom to keep him focused. But that was what he wanted to avoid, really. Control wasn't something he wanted. Freedom was what he wanted. That was why he was here. So he'd wait now, cause that was _his_ decision.

Wait, be bored. Be bored, wait. Do nothing. Oh, god, what was going on up there? He had such a... He hissed suddenly and went into his backpack, feeling... hungry? Sure, call it hungry. His hand darted past the sandwiches, drawing out a bunched up bundle of napkins.

Something now. Just waiting now.

--

He didn't wake up because he wanted to. He was forced. Someone was giving him a light shake on the shoulder. Kind of a rub, really. No matter what it was, it seemed to rattle his whole body, just sent waves of _chill_ all across him, the sort of uncomfortable things that come with surprise and discomfiture. He bounced back in his bed, letting out a loud whimper. Wasn't pained, or anything. Frightened, maybe.

"Michael, it's alright. You're alright."

Soft. Feminine. Not Cheri. Michael opened his eyes slightly, turning his head toward the voice. A nurse was peering down at him. She had her hair done up behind her, and she wore a greyish sort of dress with an ID card, so she had to be a nurse. Mike blinked as he took in the details. Things were much clearer. Better now. They must have been feeding him drugs. He felt really hungry all of a sudden.

The nurse smiled. She had a plump, kindly sort of face that lent itself well to smiling. Mike smiled back, to show that he was conscious. She seemed nice. It'd probably take a while for that niceness to go away. Many years, probably. Mike had no doubts there.

"I'm hungry," he said. His throat was rather full, so he cleared it out a bit.

The nurse nodded, "I'd imagine. We'll get you something to eat right away." She paused and looked toward a television set that hung off the ceiling, a little over Mike's bed. "Do you want that on?"

Mike shrugged. He looked down at himself. A white blanket had been draped over his whole body, up to the starting point of his neck. Peeked under the covers. Wearing some sort of robe, Mike didn't know the proper word for it. He felt... really empty, for some reason. Not really related to his being hungry, too. More like... something was missing. You know, it was there, and now it... wasn't.

His spleen. Right. They'd removed it. He felt barely anything. There wasn't much to feel. Jeez.

As she fiddled with the TV, the nurse said, "I woke you up because there's someone here to see you. Sorry about that, by the way. It looked like you were dreaming."

"It's ok," Michael said. He cleared his throat again, "Uh. Who is it?" Did he sound hopeful? Yeah. Sort of.

"Your father, I think. Philip Westin?"

Mike sank slightly against the bed. Damnit. "He's not really my father."

The nurse turned and smiled again, unperturbed, "Well, your guardian, then."

"Anyone else?" Mike asked.

"No, I don't think so. Your sister left just a few hours ago, but she said she'd be back shortly." The nurse let out a triumphant "aha" as the TV flashed on. An explosion of noise blew out from it as a wildly enthusiastic looking guy rained accolades upon some sort of cleaning product. The nurse turned the volume down slightly and headed back for the bed, "That good?"

Mike nodded, although you could pretty much measure his interest in the TV by inches only, "There's no one else?"

The nurse frowned, "Do you _want_ to see your father? I can tell him you're still asleep. It'll be our secret." And she smirked conspiratorially.

Mike quickly shook his head, "No, no, it's alright. I was just wondering."

"We can arrange a phone call, if you'd like. In case there's anyone else you'd like to talk to. Would you like that, Michael?"

He looked down. "Uh. No. I was just wondering is all."

She had to know something was up. She was probably paid not to pry though, and so she didn't. "Should I send him in, then?"

"Sure." He was looking blankly at the television now. The screen declared, on a blue background and in white bold lettering: **VIAGRA. **The nurse gave him one last smile (it seemed decidedly strained now), and left the room. Mike sighed. Philip would yell a bit. That was ok, and he wasn't too concerned with that at all. It didn't help that he'd had a pre-conceived notion for the situation Mike had gotten himself into, however wrong it may had been. But, you know, it'd be hard to lie now, considering the fact that Mike loved the guy. Should he lie at all, though? Was it that important?

But maybe Philip shouldn't even know. That might be damaging to John and his people. Yeah. He'd be vague. Mike settled himself on the bed until he felt relatively snug and waited.

Philip Westin came in about a minute later. He closed the door behind him without pausing, so Mike didn't really see if the nurse was with him or not. He shrugged the coat he'd been wearing off and wrapped it around the back of a chair, which he brought over to Mike's bed and sat in. Then he finally looked at his foster son and smiled.

"Hey, Mike."

"Hi, Philip."

The older man looked at the TV, "Mind if we turn that down a snatch?"

"Sure."

Philip got up and muted the television. When he sat back down again, he ran a hand over his black, oily hairline and let out a slight hiss, "Doctor's say you've been, uh, stabilized. You believe that?"

Mike nodded, "I feel a lot better than I was yesterday."

"They say you won't be able to walk around much for a month or two. Maybe more than that." He leaned forward, "That doesn't matter, though, and... nothing else matters. Not what... y'know, I thought, or what you were doing, son, no. Doesn't matter. I'm glad you're alright, son. That's _all_ that matters." Looked like Mike wouldn't have to do any explaining after all.

But you know, it _wasn't _all that mattered. Not even by a damned sight. Ideas were starting to form in Mike's head, and none of them were very much in favor of remaining with this family for much longer. What he'd found amazed him. He'd found John Connor. As teenager, but much more. He was the general Mike had known and admired, or at least the beginnings of him. That abundant care for his soldiers, that look of abject responsibility, even in Mike's pain, Mike been able to see all of that quite clearly on John's face. How he carried himself. He'd looked just like the man. All the confusion, the doubt in Michael's mind just dropped away. This guy was flawed, sure. He was _really_ flawed and _really_ unsure of what he was doing, but Mike knew he was gonna become that... leader, that commander of mankind. As easily as night turns to day, it was a fact.

The fear dropped away when Mike beheld that realism, that pureness of character. The cowardice that had sent Mike to this place, it was gone now. He wanted to serve the general again. He wanted to fight in his burgeoning army, whether under Sarah Connor or John, it mattered not. It _would_ be John's, and that was all that mattered.

And god. He loved him. John wouldn't even get it, but he did. There was something... of a draw, yeah, about this John Mike had beheld. Maybe it was because they were so close in age, but... the lure, the idea of it was infinitely more powerful than the worship he'd had for the general in the war. He'd gone from blindly hating him to just pure, innocent understanding now. It was too great a thing for words. It was downright intoxicating, actually.

So Mike couldn't stay with Philip and Cheri for much longer, no. He wanted to get back there and fight for him. For the first time in two years, he wanted to fight.

Mike smiled at his foster father, "Well, thanks."

"My pleasure, son."

Mike sighed. This could hurt. Telling them he had to leave. He'd wait, though. They'd understand, both of them would. For the best, really. There were more important things at stake. Soon as he got better, he was off to join the Connor's. There. That was his plan. No one was going to stop him.

Philip smirked, "You give your original parents as much trouble as you're giving me?"

"They had a lot more to worry about."

Philip nodded knowingly, and the smirk disappeared, "Yes. I suppose they did."

--

_FweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeOOOOOOOWWWW!_

"What the fuck-"

Randall grabbed Alexia's hand and pulled her down. She shrieked in both surprise and terror, and goddamnit, she was positively _beside_ herself now. The group of refugees ahead of them kept going in their confused, rabbit-like fashion among the debris, confused over the sudden, whistling sound they were hearing. Randall didn't even bother to yell to them, didn't bother to _think_ about them, he just threw his arms up over Alexia's quivering form and braced himself.

The whistling ceased and exploded into a high, echoey, nerve-shattering blast of noise. Dirt and pieces of concrete flash accreted into an almost liquid oneness and fountained upwards, amidst the pack of refugees. Blood, limbs, brain matter, organs all seemed to join the ascension of dirt. No screaming. The explosion sucked the air out of their lungs as it did the life from their bodies. Or maybe Randall just couldn't hear them. He could hear the explosion, that flash _split-second_ holocaust of noise and kinetic force, and he could hear Alexia's screaming. Nothing else. For a moment, he couldn't even see, let alone think. The crescendo of all of it was reached when Randall let himself go and joined in, screaming his head off as dirt rained down on him and his wife.

And it was over then, just a second more, and no more sound. Just the ringing in their ears, the sound of dirt and pieces of debris settling into their new homes along the blasted landscape. Alexia went deathly silent, her face pressed against the soil.

"AHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH! OH GAAAWD HEEEELP MEEEE AHHH!"

More voices, hell-stricken and abused, dying, rose up to join the first. None of them lasted long as the survivors of the artillery strike shrieked their brains out and then died ingloriously. They went out like lights, one after the other, just cutting off.

So cold. So fucking cold. That was really what killed all those people. It was _so fucking cold,_ Randall fucking realized (again, for the umpteenth time that day, for the billionth time that month.) They'd all bunched together to escape the cold, use their body heat to keep everyone good and warm as they trekked along the blasted landscape. Randall and Alexia had been doing that. But then Alexia had started... started moaning about feeling wet and complaining about the baby, and Randall had just... stopped. Went back. Helped her. And pulled her down just as an artillery shell came down and killed everyone they'd been with for the past week.

Randall was appalled at how little he cared. All of his training was kicking back in, ramping up, unending, like an old, but not necessarily welcomed friend. You know someone, appreciate someone amid the fires of hell itself and you can scarcely care when they just die in front of you. And these weren't even soldiers. They were fucking civilians. Like him. Everyone was a _fucking civilian now! EVERYONE!_

Keeping his hand tightly pressed against Alexia's back, Randall looked up, examining the sky.

It was blasted and ruined, a whole sheet of ash had been thrown over the world. It was an angry red in places, but mostly it was just smoggy, deadened grayness, blackness. Nothingness. It was so fucking hard to tell when rain would come nowadays, it was so...

Looked over to the place where the group had been when the shell came down, while trying to ignore the now-regular background of skeletal buildings, mountains of rubble and dirt. Tried to ignore the freakish glows that emanated from certain places on the horizon. It was difficult. But Randall had practice with it by now, and so he ignored with success. He ignored the devastation and kept to the matter at hand.

There were two people left. Lucky bastards. They were both drenched in blood and in dirty ash. Probably irradiated like nothing else now, too. They were standing around the blast site like grim sentinels, too shocked to speak, or do much of anything but stare. Randall cleared his throat and yelled to them, "GET TO COVER!"

And they didn't listen. Randall grunted and turned his head down to Alexia. "Honey... honey, up... get up, c'mon."

She moaned, "It hurts, Randall... it hurts... I think... I think he's on his way."

Randall blinked. Oh christ.

"What happened? I blacked out," she went on.

"I think we're being shelled," Randall said. He winced as a noise like a speeding freight train shrieked from overhead. More shells inbound, then. Dull, _thump thump_ explosions sounded off in the distance.

"By... by who?"

Did he even want to know? Was it the invading army, finally? China? Russia? Impossible to know. "I have no idea. We should get inside somewhere."

"I... I think my water's broke. He's on his way."

Randall couldn't even smile. His boy was coming. His one son, on his way into life.

_What life?_ was all he could think in response to that. It felt like a cruelty. A horror. Like some blight from God had been visited upon he and Alexia.

"Come on, we're almost there..." He pulled his wife up and they started up again, holding each other close for warmth. They passed the listless, diffident sentinels, both deaf to Randall's pleas for them to come along. One of them collapsed to the ground, bonelessly as they left. And the other just stood there and swayed along with the howling wind, blank and dying. Had to be dying, just like...

Huuuh. No use dwelling on it. Randall swallowed another mouthful of dirty, ash-contaminated air and hugged himself closer to his wife.

Sometimes --and especially now-- he wondered why he bothered continuing on. Their son wouldn't live very long in a world like this. Randall had been... why, he'd been happy as a pig in shit just a month or two ago. Looking forward to his next social security payment, the last one. It had been a sad sort of happiness, a bitter sort. Alexia had been expecting for several months, much to everyone's surprise. They didn't think she had it in her. And, god, they were so pleased with it, so content with that knowledge of having a child, but Randall had always harbored a secret dread. Why bother? That sort of dread he was feeling now, though less potent, less powerful. My son will be... what? Ten? Younger when I finally pass? It was what he feared. He wouldn't live long enough to see his son off into adulthood. That was horrific.

And that horror was exacerbated a million times by this... turn of events. Randall would be lucky to live another year like this. For Alexia, the stress she was enduring, it would be a miracle. And for their unborn son? To live his life in this blasted world, where humanity seemed utterly doomed? Randall had tried convincing her into give it up. To off themselves in a nice, quiet, fairly warm place when all was said and done, when the baby was born and they were ready. Living like this was unbearable, unfeasible.

But no. She wanted to live for the baby. Provide for him. Survive for him. It took a lot of screaming, and strength Randall didn't even think his wife had possessed to convince him not to lead them all to suicide. So now they were going to the nearby F.E.M.A. outpost. The one the pamphlets had talked about. The doctors there would help them shepherd their baby into the world... and then they'd try and figure out what to do next. That was their goal now. Their mission, their sole purpose for existence. It helped to have a goal, Randall thought.

They hobbled along for about an hour, through fields of death and debris. Randall steered them clear of large piles of rubble and buildings. Those would be irradiated. Alexia moaned. Randall winced as more artillery shells rained down in the distance, some of which were painfully close. But none of them warranted dashing for cover, leaping to the ground and hoping this leap wouldn't accidentally doom their son before his time. No, by God's grace, they didn't have to go through any of that.

Eventually the man from the first artillery strike caught up with them, coughing and spluttering. He wanted to come with them. He couldn't stop now, he told them. And so they all huddled together, and they continued on. The man was named Martin. His wife was back there, he said with a sort of crazy smirk. Wife was back there. Are you pregnant? He would say in the next breath. Congratulations! He seemed nuts.

When they turned past another street and onto a long roadway, Martin cried out with joy and abandoned the two. Randall quickly saw why. Ahead of them, maybe a hundred meters off, was a picket line of black-suited men. They carried assault guns. Alexia sighed and urged them on, but Randall would had none of it. No. Wait here. Watch-

The men raised their assault rifles and shot Martin until he was dead. And then they stared at the couple and waited. Randall frowned.

"Oh my god... no..." Alexia was whispering, "Not now... now now..."

Randall led her on a bit. Just a bit. Within shouting range, "SHE'S PREGNANT!"

The black-suited men looked at one another. They all sported very officious looking F.E.M.A. logos on their arms, Randall could see.

When a minute passed, and when they made no move to allow them to come over, Randall yelled, "WE'RE CLEAN! WE'RE NOT RADIOACTIVE!"

And a moment later, again, "SHE'S PREGNANT!"

One of the men waved them forward. Randall simply stared. It could be a trap.

"WE WON'T SHOOT!"

"SHE'S PREGNANT!" Randall said again, and his voice danced, wavered this time. He eased his wife forward, and they started for the thin black line. They were all tensing up. And Randall kept yelling "she's pregnant, she's pregnant!" over and over again. His voice faltered and seemed to drown in itself as they passed Martin's corpse. It was barely even a rasp as he passed the soldiers. And when they were among all the refugees, and the tents, and the impromptu equipment with tons of biohazard signs everywhere, he just about collapsed. But they didn't shoot. That was all that mattered.

Medical workers came along shortly. They confirmed that the couple wasn't irradiated. They explained that they could barely take any more refugees into this camp, but they'd make an exception for them because of the pregnancy. F.E.M.A. was using positioned artillery to thin out the number of refugees throughout the city so the camps wouldn't be overwhelmed. All clinical. Very doctoral. Randall didn't even call it insane, or call them all fascists, or explain his rights, or say how he was in Vietnam and he'd never seen horrors like this, such willful disregard for a nation's own people. The workers were all hounded and tired looking. He didn't spare himself on them. He was more apt to kiss them than to yell at them simply for allowing he and his wife to stay here.

The refugee city, a smattering of immaculate tents, medical vans, military equipment, and shanties, was full of people. People, tired, smelly, frazzled and terrified, just everywhere. They shoved and jostled their way through life, it seemed, always acting terribly, always acting primal. For food, for space, barely anyone looked at each other. And God... they all looked so exhausted.

There was a statue in the middle of the camp, and a platoon of "lost person" signs had been attached to it. A loudspeaker had been erected on top of the statue, and it yelled out orders, precisely every five minutes. Mostly that people should get inside their shelters immediately if it was reported that rain was on the way. It also bleated out reassurances. The federal government was doing it's job. The President had been on the air only a few days ago to urge calm. By all indications, the whole world had suffered through what was widely being referred to, among the refugees, as "Judgment Day."

Every hour the loudspeaker droned out, in a computerized voice, different from the loud, authoritative gutturalness of the camp commander, the list of confirmed cities that'd been struck by the nuclear barrage in the United States. Randall stopped paying attention after a while.

And during all those hours, he remained crouched next to his wife, along with two male doctors who goose-stepped him through delivering his boy. Twelve hours passed before the boy's head appeared. And Randall pulled him out. And the doctors moved off like specters, as though nothing had happened, moving to the next problem. Entirely exhausted and ready to collapse, Randall fell alongside his wife, ignoring the calls of a female nurse who was running toward them, all while instructing them on what they should do next to sterilize and complete the birthing procedure. They stared down at their son, bloody, messy and very, very confused. He wasn't even crying. Just stared at his parents as much as they stared at him. His eyes were huge. Expectant. Randall slowly smiled.

"Now what?" He said to his wife.

Alexia, who, for all the world, looked revitalized, energized by this ordeal, merely offered him a light smirk and said, "Help me think of a name."

"You look wonderful," Randall groaned. At times, Alexia would say, Randall was quite eloquent in the ways he spoke to her. He didn't think he could ever do that again, not even after their son was finally here. He'd been through too much terror, too much exhaustion for loveliness again. He felt like there was only purpose in his heart now. It was a horrible feeling.

"We're both wonderful," said Alexia, "He's wonderful. We're going to get through all this, honey..."

Randall smiled weakly. The nurse was upon them now, taking the baby out of his hands, and showing them what they ought to be doing. They watched with all the attentiveness of eager kindergartners.

In the middle of her instruction, the nurse looked at them and asked, "What's, erm, his name?"

"Michael," Randall Oxferod said after a moment's pause. "Michael."

--

Later, after all was said and done, he went over to where "they" were. The black-suited men. They wore gasmasks as they manned the artillery, unlike their counterparts at the picket line. Probably to protect from cordite fumes. The mobile artillery emplacements were slick looking. Not even that dusty. They boomed constantly, sending death back toward Randall and his wife had come. The men went about their duties without slackening, without turning their heads from what they were doing. Randall heard no muffled voices. They didn't even speak. He watched them for hours after Alexia and their son were sleeping.

Occasionally they stopped to receive firing missions from a universal transmitter in their masks. And Randall would hear a muffled "Yessir." And then they would deviate, ever so slightly, to put in those coordinates, so that they could reduce the remaining population of the city. So as to not be overwhelmed, the medical orderlies were always saying. The black-suited men had probably lost everything in the last few weeks. What else did they have in their heart to follow but orders? And they followed. What were more deaths, after all? What were more deaths?

So they went about their duties. Speaking only to say "yessir" and deviating only to help their assignment. And their faces were obscured by masks, lending unto them all one face. No face.

So much like machines, Randall thought dully, as he headed back to his wife and son. How was humanity to survive if this was what they were reduced to?


	3. The Guests

**Away**

Chapter Three: The Guests

Disclaimer: Special thanks to CIsaac and Camelot Girl for beta reading.

"... and so I sez to her, ya know, that bitch doesn't have to be a bitch like that, right?"

"Totally!"

"Hi there, I'm John-"

"Oh, hey, I was just talking to someone. Wait a minute?"

"Oh, uh... sure!"

--

"Any, uh, beer over here? Y'know."

"Naah, Baum... you got any?"

"That's what I just asked you."

"I don't got any. You got any?"

"Never mind, I see some."

"Can you get me some? Hello? Come back, dude..."

--

_"I'm a sailor peg! And I've lost my leg!"_

"I SAID THAT'S PRETTY LOUD!"

"FUCK YOU, BAUM! THIS SONG ROCKS!"

"WHAT?"

"I SAID FUCK YOU..."

"_Climbing up the top sails I lost my leg!"_

--

_Am I having fun?_ was the question which was going through the rounds in John's mind. Simple question in lack of a simple answer. Wasn't a simple yes or a simple no. He felt a lot of stuff right now.

Well. The door opened again at eight o'clock, right on the dot, exactly as Bryant had said. Changed and looking decidedly less sexed up, he'd waved John in. When asked if there was anything worth doing, Bryant simply stared at him for a while, as though appraisingly. John let him do it without saying a word. He didn't want to get on this guy's bad side, especially after what happened earlier. After a bit, Bryant smiled sort of nastily and told John to go down to the cellar (after dispensing directions) and bring up a few kegs. They were filled with beer. And he told John not to worry about the pot down there, someone else would be providing that shit. Meanwhile _he_ would go up to his room and leisurely decide on what CDs he'd put in the stereo. He said it all very cooly, casually. This is how it is, and this is how things are gonna happen. You go down to the cellar. I got up to my comfortable room.

The cellar was dusty and oddly humid. It was also fucking difficult to see, cause the lights down there refused to turn on. Kegs of beer were right there by the door, though, so it wasn't all bad. They weren't more than John could handle carrying, but when he was down there he could have sworn something cold brushed by his leg. Twice. On two separate runs. And for a boy who was marked in certain circles for summary execution, that wasn't a great feeling. Anyway, once he was done a few people had arrived, but John was a bit too sweaty to bother socializing right then.

And none of that had been fun.

A little after that, as the music started going and as people starting yammering their heads off everywhere, John helped himself to a beer. It wasn't much worse than what he'd been forced to try sometimes in Mexico, but the smell was pretty off-putting. And it tasted weird. He kept going at it like a trooper, though. Soon as he'd downed the cup he felt incredibly weird inside, and his head felt like it was swimming. It wasn't necessarily unpleasant, though. He had to be a bit more sure of his steps, at any rate, and the people around him got a bit more difficult to understand, while what they said got funnier. Weird. After a bit of consideration, he tried talking to people, and he ended up giggling a lot at them while they giggled right on back at him. _With_ him, that is.

That, admittedly, had been pretty fun.

Around nine and the place was packed. No sign of Morris, but at that point John scarcely cared. He went around the house, drifting in and out of conversation. He kept his ears open for announcements by Bryant, because that just seemed like the kind of guy he was. He'd told everyone where the drug dealing dude was (free tonight for everyone, the dude was making an exception for Bryant because he was his "good friend,") he'd loudly said hi to a bunch of college aged guys who trooped in at one point, as if he wanted everyone abundantly aware of their presence, and he did the same thing for certain girls at certain points. John had spent a while trying to find one of those girls, but they were all missing, oddly enough. He didn't feel like asking anybody where they were. Yet. Mostly, for now, he was mainly people-watching and people-talking. Heh. Funny term, that. People-talking. Heh.

The people-talking wasn't seeing a lot of success, though, cause they kept blowing him off. At first he didn't know why, but _then_ he started doing more watching than talking, and he realized, as he watched these people, that they were all like snakes, vipers, just... animals. Just sort of hissing and biting at each other, not really being nice to each other, being all aggressive. And they didn't seem to have a problem with _any_ of that... it seemed like their natural way of _being_, so John wanted to be sort of like them, too. If he acted too hesitant and shit, he realized, people wouldn't bother with him, even in all their drunkenness and shit. These people seemed to want rudeness and aggression. It was weird. But John had been a pugnacious little shitter when he was ten. He could get that back, right? Right.

So overall it was a mix, really, of fun and... not so much fun. He was gonna try and amend that, though. Soon as he was finished drinking this one cup...

Sitting hunched over at the big table in the kitchen among other party-goers, trying to figure out what he'd say to the hot (thought she was hot, anyhow) girl next to him, John was surprised to find someone taping him on the shoulder.

He turned, the beer in his cup sloshing slightly, and peered at the dude behind him, "Yep?"

The dude had hair sort of like John's. All out in front, over the eyes, which were a sort of dullish blue-green. Face was rather full, also like John's, but decidedly thinner in the cheeks. Or maybe it just seemed that way. Unless John was fully mistaken, the guy was wearing some sort of eyeliner. He seemed about five or six years John's senior, though his youngish face kind of belied the feeling of his being older.

They stared at one another for a moment, tilting their heads in a mutual sort of recognition. The feeling was over almost as soon as it'd started, though, and the other guy smirked as John blinked confusedly.

"You come here often, brother?"

John blinked rapidly and ran two fingers over his eyes. He felt like he wasn't seeing straight, and it was weird. "Uh, nah. Not really, no. You?"

The other dude shook his head, "Same deal. Gimme a sip of that?"

Something shattered in the living room (or antechamber, as Bryant called it) as John peered down into his cup. Beer was about half... uh... Focus. Focus. Look. Right, yes, half gone. There was enough to share. Totally. Without missing a beat he offered it to the guy, who took it with a nod. John turned his head slightly to the girl he'd been looking after and found her sitting on the lap of some guy, their tongues eagerly exploring each others mouths. John sighed. It didn't help that that guy just happened to be Bryant.

Wait. That meant...

Huuuh. Well. Turn around, then. Don't dwell. _Fuck,_ he felt horny all over again. Goddamn. He did a plodding turn-around and looked at the dude who'd prodded him.

The guy took a small sip from the cup and grimaced, "Definitely not the best." He took another drink, made a mock "blech" sound, and handed the cup back to John, who absently turned the cup round and drank a bit himself.

He giggled, "Yeah, it's kind of... gross. I dunno why I... uh... bother." He set the styrofoam cup down on the table.

The other guy swept his head around the room, looking at the various guests. His face seemed to transform with every person he took in, going from goofy to pensive to vindictive, to... heh. John smiled, faintly amused by this. The people around them were just... partying, but with startling suddenness they all looked incredibly pathetic. One guy was singing completely out of tune with the song that was going, _another_ guy was in tune, but he sounded like a fucking duck, all quacking and shit, while a girl seemed to be locked in an argument with another girl. They both pointed wildly at a plant which sat innocently on the nearby end table.

The guy looked at all of them, his face changing with every single one. And he seemed to revel in what he was doing, as though he knew something all the guests didn't, as though he had something they lacked. Weird. Eventually he turned back to the John, "Maybe it's cause of them." He was silent for a moment, just staring at John. His smile got a bit thinner, a bit less sure and uncomfortable. "You've never been drunk before, have you?"

John decided not to lie. And... wow. Was he drunk? Already? Did he look drunk? Shit. The other guy didn't seem all that drunk himself.

"You're right," said John.

"You want to be one of em'? S'that why you got like this?"

He shrugged, "I've always been... y'know, apart from people like this. It's... the life I lead. I figured tonight I'd see what it was like, cause... uh... I'm not gonna live like I... used to. Yeah." These people weren't saints, but they didn't seem _all_ that bad... right? Maybe John was too drunk to notice.

"Being different's not so bad," the guy said. He had a lazy sort of smirk now, as though they were nothing less than two hippies exchanging secret knowledge.

John looked at him, "It's _what_ makes me different that... uh... makes me... want to, uh... not be different. Ye-eah." The girl behind him bumped her back into his leg and erupted into a loud, cackling gale of laughter. Bryant chortled, sounding not a lot unlike his girlfriend.

The guy ignored all of that, focusing his attention on John. It felt like the first time he'd been noticed all day, actually, and in a way that wasn't nasty. John liked that, although he could scarcely appreciate it in his current state. "Well, it can't be all that bad."

John sighed, "It... it kind of is. But hey, it's cool. I'm just... tryin' to have fun tonight. Don't wanna... think about that kind'a shit, alright? Just wanna have fun tonight."

"We all do. It's cool, brother. You do what you want, eh? Your life, after all."

"I... I'm not your... brother." John pointed a finger at the guy. It would have looked vaguely accusatory if John wasn't pointing at a plant on the other side of the room instead of at the dude's face.

And the dude laughed, long and high-pitched, "No kidding! Hehehe, anyway... ah... wow. That's great." He put a hand on John's shoulder as he got up, "Take it easy, brother. Don't ever change, hehe. Peace."

John tracked the guy's retreating back with a peace-sign signal. He smirked lightly and laid back against the chair. Take it easy. He'd take it real easy. That wasn't so bad, you know? Someone who understood and didn't judge him. John shut his eyes. He'd relax a bit... he felt better after that conversation, really, even though he'd acted sorta dickish to that guy. The important thing was that the guy disagreed with him, but he acted cool about it. He accepted John. That was _awesome. _

Relax a bit, take it all in... talk to someone later. Get a little of what he wanted, socialize. Fun! Right? Sure-

The girl nudged her foot against John's. Up. Down. Rub rub rub. John's eyes flashed open and he stared at Bryant and his girl. She withdrew her foot, although it's influence was made pretty much well known in short order. John absently moved his leg up slightly to cover himself as he said, "Yeah?"

Bryant stroked his girlfriend's waist, "Say, uh, John. You wanna get me and her some pot from the dealer? Just tell him I sent you and he'll, uh... hehe, he'll just get it and send you back. Ok?"

"W-why can't you... uh. Go?"

Bryant gestured to the girl, still sitting on his lap, "Don't wanna move her, dude. Hee." Christ, what did he need _more_ drugs for? He was already as high as a kite, by all indications. He looked at her, "You'll make it up to him, right?"

John's breath went short. All thoughts of relaxation, of acceptance, were purged straight from his mind. Desire strong-armed it's way through the more sensitive, thoughtful emotions (what were left) and demanded the spotlight. The girl smirked, "Yeah..." She stared John up and down. When her eyes flitted back up to his own, her smirk expanded, "Yeah, I'll repay the favor. Soon as I'm done with you, boyfriend." She looked back at Bryant.

He giggled, "Sure thing, girlfriend. Hehe."

John didn't need to hear anything more, didn't _want_ to hear anything more because he felt like he'd tear the bitch off Bryant and bang her right there. Christ, they were fucking persuasive. Drugs? Sure! He could get drugs. He ran like the wind.

--

"BARHAH GRH GARBARGASH!" yelled the zombie.

Morris retorted by blowing him up.

"Brains!"

Shot in head.

"HUNGRY FOR MEAT!"

Slice 'n dice.

"MRH!"

Shotgun-

As he continued through the Attack of the Strangely Coherent Zombies (ASCoZ for short), Morris' eyes slowly, inevitably tilted toward the clock on his nightstand, almost a full 60 degrees _away_ from the television screen.

**10:04 PM**

But... but it'd been so _quick!_ How could... _fuck!_

He got his good jeans on in a hurry, and then his jacket, pocketed his phone, put on his cologne, and hurried down the stairs. John was gonna fucking kill him, if he wasn't already drunk off his ass. You made promises, you don't... Christ, his mom was right, he was a good for nothing lazy heretic. He couldn't keep promises to his friends, how could he be so cruel because of zombies alone? ZOMBIES! Goddamnit, he would _apologize_ for not-

Morris opened the door and had barely a foot outside when he stopped short, his mouth falling open in shock.

"Hello, Morris," said Cameron Baum. She smiled lightly and caught him before he could fall over. When he was good and upright (and, if he wasn't completely mistaken, salivating,) she said, "Do you know where John is?"

Eh. Morris had already broken one promise tonight. What was one more?

--

The grey house was as dark as doused candle wick, as silent as a tomb, as still as...

Hicks only had so much patience for metaphors. It was fucking empty. The blinds were drawn, no car existed on the driveway like the other night, when he'd staked the place out, no lights were going on and off within to suddenly illuminate the darkened street. It was empty.

"It's empty," he said, his gravelly voice making Cameron Forsythe jump in her seat. He was a man of lean, unimposing build, almost whip-thin in the chest and waist. Most people, even his late wife, joked that they could tear him in half like a twig... if he hadn't put ten bullets in their skull first before they reached him. What he lacked in brawn he more possessed in near-supernatural accuracy with most handguns and assault rifles. He could feel the way the wind blew in his bones, knew the parameters of almost every conventional ballistic in NATO's arsenal, and, if presented with a splotch of red paint on the thinest side of a red barn, he could hit the splotch with ease.

So long as he kept his cool, a fact which made Hicks a decidedly moderate instead of exemplary shot whenever he got himself into a stressful situation. Whenever that happened he was like any old schmo of a soldier, and to combat that, he took tons of calming drugs, anti-anxiety drugs whenever on he was on assignment... whether for Blackwater or for these crazy machine cultists, it didn't matter.

He hadn't had those drugs in a while, and he was feeling their absence strongly. It didn't help that his wife had been killed yesterday by some chicken-shit teenager with a pistol. Hicks smirked nastily as he remembered. And he could afford that, because the pain was still fresh, so... _tangible, tactile. _That kid was good. He'd blown two holes in two people's heads, killed them without even a hint of remorse. His skills were obvious, and, even though he'd been wearing a cops uniform, Hicks had no doubt that he was an associate of John Connor. Which made it _very_ likely that Hicks would see him again.

And Hicks liked the idea of that. Killing his wife's killer. You can go see movies for overblown revenge dramas, this was _real_, and he was dealing with _facts_ here. If he saw that guy, that boy, he'd kill him, and then Hicks would feel incredibly good about himself, that was all there was to it.

But, honestly, why kill the soldier when you can feel _a fuck-ton _better by killing the general, too? The one who moved all the pawns, sent men to die and kill. The cold, fun-shunning bastard. The teenager had killed Hicks' wife. That was a fact. But hell, John Connor may as well had been there, pulling the trigger for his lackey. Just as one of his _other_ soldiers murdered Cameron's father, it was all the same.

Cameron sat next to Hicks, staring nervously at the house. She was as enthusiastic about this as Hicks, but, like a child, she was timid about it at the same time. Or at least she seemed that way. She spoke softly. More brains than brawn, Hicks was betting, but she was an enigma just the same. They both wanted the Connor's taken out for their own reasons, not necessarily reconcilable with their overlords, the SKYNET cult that was trying to bring the foretold armageddon to culmination. Neither of them had been hot about that stuff in the first place (in marked contrast to the loved ones they'd lost, who were both as fanatical as was capable,) but they were willing to help out if only to further their own selfish desires.

Officially they were on stakeout, following Samuel the Terminator's orders. Unofficially they were here to fuck shit up if they saw anything. Samuel, for some odd reason, wanted them only to observe. He was a careful 'bot. Hicks wondered if all of them were like that... in that future of theirs.

"It's empty," he said again into the silence. There was no point in their being here if there was nothing to shoot at.

"That's _weird._ Are they out? Do they know?"

Hicks shrugged, "Could be on vacation for all we know, goddamnit. Let's go, we'll come back tomorrow."

She looked at him, "It's only ten o'clock. Can't we stay a bit longer? Please?"

He rolled his eyes, "I want them eighty-sixed as much as you do, Cameron."

"Don't say that!," she exclaimed, as if it was some sort of surprise. Hicks snorted and leaned in.

"But it's true. You want them whacked, pushing daisies, sleeping with the fishes, _dead."_

She said nothing and continued to stare out.

Hicks sighed, "Well. It's not as easy as that, Cameron. We've gotta be patient."

He looked out at that house, frowning. Cameron remained silent. After a minute, Hicks clicked his tongue and leaned over to her, "Suppose... it's not actually empty. Suppose we just... _think_ it's empty."

She turned to him.

"Then what?" he said.

"Then we go in and..."

He seized on her words like a dog would pounce on a piece of meat, "THEN SOME _BITCH_ WITH A SHOTGUN CUTS YOU IN HALF!" He snarled and shoved the keys into the ignition. Cameron stared at him, wide-eyed and suddenly hurt. Hicks ignored her, concentrating on pulling the transmission stick up to drive. "We can't go fucking this up, Cameron. It's too important to fuck up, and-"

_Click_

He looked up and lashed out with his left hand, trying to catch Cameron's right leg as she pulled herself out of the car. He managed to catch her foot, but she shook him loose by smacking his outstretched arm. Then she was out and running for the house, Baby Glock 26 flashing out of her pocket. Stupid _bitch!_

Hicks grabbed the vicious looking MP5 tucked against the side of his seat and clambered out. Jesus Christ, did she have a fucking death wish?!

"CAMERON!"

"SHUT UP, ASSHOLE!"

He jerked the safety pin on the MP5 as he went around the car. He sent a look up to the house. No fucking activity. Yet. He started across the street, his lean form granting him the speed needed to eventually catch up with that whore and knock some sense into her before they _both_ got wasted.

"_Cameron!_"

_Screeeeeeeech!_

Hicks shrunk back as a pair of car headlights blinded him. He could barely even see the car itself as it skidded to a halt, not that he cared.

"DRUNKEN ASSHOLE!" some guy yelled. "OFF THE ROAD!"

Hicks raised the MP5 into the air and fired off twice. Strobes of light exploded from the muzzle of the submachine gun. Jesus Christ, he was losing it! Fucking _bitch! fucking... fucking..._

"_Holy shit!" _the same guy squeaked.

Hicks ignored him and resumed his sprint after Cameron. Under any other circumstances he'd have popped the bastard for yelling at him like that, but... _aw fuck_, she was at the goddamned door.

"_Cameron!_!"

And she was in. Hicks picked up speed, nearly tripping over the curb as he reached the front lawn. He was tensing up all over, muscles constricting tightly in preparation for the sound of gunfire. If there was someone in there, Cameron was dead, no two ways about it, she was in the ground. And he'd be one ally short. One... one gal short. One...

On the porch now. He brought the MP5 to firing stance and kicked the door open.

Nothing. An urbane little living room-kitchen set up. Darkness reigned with near-absolute dominance, he could barely see a thing.

_Any_ number of guns could have been pointed at him right then and there. His balls sprang up into his midsection, a cold chill washed over him. He could fucking bite it right now. Maybe that bitch who looked like Cameron was staring at him past the barrel of a pistol. He didn't want to die._ No._ Not without...

"Cameron?" he said, his voice a far-cry from its harshness of before.

Nothing. No answer. No breathing. No uncertain shuffling of feet. No sound of metal. He heard nothing. _God,_ he felt like he was alone, but...

_"Cam-_"

Loud pounding somewhere in the house. Sounded like stairs. He heard Cameron's voice, loud and hysterical, "_No one in here, bastard_! _It's empty!_"

Hicks hid himself behind the open door. Cameron repeated herself as she trooped into the living room, sounding beside herself. She'd been hoping alright. Hoping someone was in here for her to shoot. Little _bitch._

"EMPTY-"

He slammed the door. Cameron seemed to stand briefly in the middle of the living room, her form engulfed by the street lights from outside, through the open door. And then she disappeared as it went shut. She let out a loud, terrified gasp.

"H-Hicks?"

"Yes?"

She shrieked. He grabbed the door handle and threw it open again, illuminating the room once more, eliciting another yell of terror. Cameron stood right where she'd been, her face a mask of abject shock.

"You fucking bitch," Hicks said. "Do you REALIZE how STUPID that was?!"

"I... don't..."

"THINK? You don't think?!" He took a few steps toward her, "CAUSE IF THAT'S WHAT YOU WERE GONNA SAY, THEN I'D AGREE WHOLE-HEARTEDLY!"

"SHUT UP!" She twirled away from him, hands seeming to paw at her eyes, "Stop it, you..."

He grabbed her hand and yanked it toward him, which caused her entire body to jerk, "I said you CAN'T FUCK THIS UP,_ CAMERON! _And you seem fucking dead-set on doing just _that._"

"I don't care... I don't care, I don't..." she took in a sobbing breath, "I just want to do it, do it soon, I don't want to _think_ about it, I don't want to _plan_ it or... or just _wait for it to happen,_ Hicks, I want to kill them I want to kill them right now, oh my god... oh..."

"That'll be _real_ hard if you're dead yourself, b_-bitch."_

"Don't call me that... this... oh... this feels _wrong,_ just planning like this." She stared up at him, "It feels like we're not better... oh my god..."

He released her, taking in a deep breath. He was shaking all over. Was there a couch nearby? There was. He staggered over and collapsed back into it, "Shut up."

"You _know I'm right!"_

"I don't care. And you shouldn't either, goddamnit. It doesn't matter if we plan or we just off them if we see happen to see them at a fucking Denny's, it _doesn't matter._ We're doing this my way... and... and that's final."

She stood there, letting out occasional sobs, "I want... I want to... I want to, it's so..." She took in a hissing breath, "It's so persuasive. I feel like we're acting... l-like criminals, but... it's so _powerful_, Hicks. I want to do it soon... so it doesn't hurt inside, so I don't have to think about it."

He looked at her, his hands absently fiddling with the MP5 and its mechanisms, "That's not possible." Before she could answer that with another emotional tirade, he motioned for her to come over. She did so without looking at him, sniffling rapidly.

"I'm sorry I hit you like that," Hicks said quietly.

"I don't give a shit," Cameron replied, her voice near deadened. "I want this to be over... soon."

"I said that's impossible. This isn't gonna work if we don't plan in advance, take everything into account. We'll lose if we don't. My wife, your father, Daniel, they'll just... turn in their graves, right? No one left to avenge em'. We gotta plan it, Cameron."

"I know... Oh god... daddy..."

"We're fine, Cameron. It's ok." Slowly, experimentally, he wrapped a hand around Cameron's shaking shoulders. She flinched a bit as he touched her, but she didn't push him away. She was way too small with him, Hicks realized. His wife had been a bit broader, a little more well built than she was. He had to stretch a little to get his hand around her, and Cameron was so much smaller than that. It was strange to him... but not that unwelcome, really.

She laid her head against his arm, "No it's not."

"It doesn't matter, though. Cause we're doing this anyway, right? No matter the reasons, or the... the thought involved. We're doing it anyway, cause it's the right thing to do."

She turned her eyes to him. And they stared at one another for a while in silence, their eyes slowly dilating as they both adjusted to the darkness.

"Uh huh."

He smiled at her, "Then it's ok."

And she smiled back.

--

The man was blonde. His face was smooth, almost cherubic. He couldn't be much older than twenty five. His lips were starkly cool and unfriendly, and the eyes, amazingly blue and staring, weren't much different. They regarded John with a slight degree of boredom as his fingers patted the head of the sixteen-odd aged kid sitting next to him. The man was wearing a rather flamboyant red blazer. From his little corner in the living room, his eyes swept around the room, and occasionally he'd grin in a impish, predatory manner.

He was seriously creeping John out. There was something malevolent about him, the way he carried himself. He had the drugs, though. All the drugs, it seemed like. A whole bunch of people were bunched up around John, asking in their loud, pouty voices for marijuana. John was at the forefront of this tiny crowd, but he was having difficulty making himself heard. It was probably the stupid beer he'd had, messing with his tongue and slurring up everything he said. Anyway, the boy who seemed bound to the dealer was handing out the joints, which came in pairs, in tiny plastic bags, but only, as the dealer said, if the receiver said "please."

"Please!"

"Puh-lease!"

"Pleaaase!"

"Please."

"PLEASE!"

"Please."

Unsurprisingly, the dealer was thrilled with this arrangement. He worked slowly, methodically, pointing to the next person who'd shortly receive their newest high. And the kid would scurry over to said person and give it up. Then he'd retreat back only to have the dealer resume patting him. And the kid would _preen_, almost as if he was acting... like a good boy, or something, like he was getting a reward. So yeah, it was fucking weird. They both freaked him out, this whole situation freaked him out, but... what that girl had promised... the idea of it was overwhelming, calling to John. He couldn't wait to get there, whatever it was.

And it was so great, you know, the girl who'd been with Bryant, you know, _that_ girl. That was wonderful to John. That prospect seemed like something ineffable. Cuckoldry, you know? Or something like that. That had a real big allure to John, it was something you know is bad, but you do it anyway, y'know? This would be like a coming to terms. If he was with his mom, with Cameron, this shit wouldn't even go through his head. But now that he was free... he could do what he wanted.

So he had to get drugs for them. And then he'd... huh. Think about that later, Johnny. God, he felt drunk. He must not be thinking all that straight. Maybe some of what'd been promised would cheer him up, heh? Yeah...

The dealer's eyes swept back on over to John, and this time the teenager cleared his throat and did his best to force the words out over his listless tongue, "Bryant sent me!"

The dealer smirked, but he said nothing. His eyes moved on.

"Please!"

...and flitted back. The dealer smiled, and he seemed to take John in now, like, really examine him. They went up, down, over and across. They were really probing, and John felt for all the world as though he were something in a petri dish.

The smile got much bigger, and the dealer nodded slowly to himself, like he'd had something of an epiphany in his mind. He pointed toward John. The dealer's lackey scuttled forward and reached out with a bag. John stared at him for a moment. The kid's eyes were sort of hounded, like he was abused. There were red marks on his face, John could see that clearly... and there was something that looked like a strip of leather wrapped round his neck. It was seriously creepy.

Should he say something? He couldn't think of anything to say. Probably the beer sloshing around in him. That had been so _stupid_. Was this what he wanted? To do nothing when presented with... with a thing like _this?_ Was this what he wanted? To ignore shit like this and be his own person? To get drunk instead?

John grabbed the bag and pushed his way back out of the group of teenage druggies. Well. It wasn't his business.

All the same, he wouldn't mind forgetting these two people. Not like he'd see either one of em' again, after all.

--

It was sort of ironic, John reflected, that he hadn't honestly come up in the world since his last party excursion. He'd been ten. A fetch-boy for the older kids. And you know, he could _remember_ one time where he went out and got a baggie of pot for some bastard and his hoochie. He knew what the fuck it was too, the stuff in the bag. He knew what it was and he got it for them anyway. No promise of sexual favors, obviously, but hell. He'd been with what, Todd? Todd and Janelle? No machines, no destiny (besides a roll of the eyes and a brief mention of his mother's craziness,) and he was his own person, living his own life... This was like coming full circle. It was like he hadn't even moved, hadn't made any progress.

What the fuck could he do, though? Here he was, drunk off his ass and looking to get action tonight. He was running completely on automatic, there was barely any thought involved. It didn't feel right... but what could he do?

Leave, of course. He could leave. Find a place, sleep through his on-coming hangover (what would that feel like?,) just forget about this stupid party. It was useless, it was a step back. It wasn't what he wanted. So he could leave. As soon as he got what he wanted.

And there it goes again. Running on automatic. Just say it. You don't _not _want this, John! You _want_ to be decadent, you _want_ to have sex with someone you barely know, you _like_ this feeling of being drunk, because all of it, every inch of it screams against your upbringing, it's so contrary to the idea of John Connor the general that you love it, you drink in it.

God, he felt so torn.

Well, no time to dwell anymore. Moment of truth. He entered the kitchen again and found Bryant and his bitch still going at it. She'd turned round and was sitting astride him, still on his lap, and they were hugging each other. They seemed to be trying to breathe in stereo with each other, and they were failing miserably. They liked that, though, cause they kept giggling hysterically every five seconds. John lingered at the doorway for a moment, searching the rest of the room. The dude who'd talked to him earlier was sitting in the corner, a glass of reddish liquid clutched in his hand. He gave John a brief, sort of wavering nod.

The girl on Bryant's lap smiled as John approached. She whispered something in his ear, and the guy turned to look. Bryant smirked, "Hey, uh..." He blinked twice, "John. Hey John. That for us?"

"Yep," John said, "It's... it's for you. Here." He handed it to Bryant, who quickly drew the two joints out of the bag and handed one to his girlfriend. Bryant produced a Zippo from his jean pocket. They lit up and settled into one another, eyes closing tightly. Bryant let out a huge sigh as John shifted uncomfortably on his feet. And he hated to do that, cause he felt like he'd fall. Or something. He felt really bad right then, and he didn't fully know why.

"So uh..."

Bryant looked at him, "Thanks, bro. Come sit with us... Chill."

"Yeah, ok."

He took the chair he'd sat in before. And then, without so much as a word, he drew his hand up and started stroking the girl's back. He was probably doing it too roughly, though, cause she turned around suddenly and glared at him.

"Hey, what?" she said.

John shook his head slowly, "N-nothing. Sorry. I... I, uh, thought you were... y'know..."

She stared at him for a moment in utter incomprehension. "Wh-what? Oh!"

Bryant mumbled, "What's up?"

"Nothing, hold on," she sent another look to John. It was a bit more probing now, sort of like the way the dealer had done, but in more of an utilitarian, efficient way. She looked him up and down and slowly nodded to herself, also like the dealer. "In a minute," she whispered. She smiled widely.

Bryant opened his eyes and looked at her, "What?"

"I said it was nothing."

"Th-then what were you saying to him?"

"Nothing!" She looked at John and gave a stiff shake of her head, upwards. _Upstairs. _

Huuh. Oh jeez. John nodded absently to her and, arms and legs shaking like leaves, pulled himself up off the chair. Oh Jesus, she wanted to fuck him, didn't she? Why... why that? But wasn't that what he wanted? YES. Oh, god, _yes._ Running on automatic. No fucking time for thinking, he could think when he was alone, when he wasn't _here._ All automatic. Ohhh. He looked back as he walked out of the kitchen. Bryant was arguing with the girl, but it'd probably resolve itself. John could barely figure out what they were saying. It probably didn't matter.

The dude from before grinned at John. It was sort of a joking "well, would you look at that?" sort of grin. Not really all that encouraging, more like the whole thing was a spectacle rather than... God, John grinned back, as if he was in on the joke. He really wasn't, but that hardly mattered. John walked out into the living room, that shaky, wanting grin still on his face. He walked past the throngs of people, avoided them, running on automatic, moving ever closer to... to what he wanted. Did he really want it? Right then it didn't matter to him. Not one bit.

He could be so stupid at times.

Rock music churned in the background. People talked in high, sort of inflated voices. This... wasn't so bad. He could get used to this... he supposed. Wasn't all that bad, eh?

So stupid at times.

As he reached the stairs, John sent a look back over the crowded living room. People everywhere, just... everywhere, drinking, kissing, dancing, talking their yammering talk. Everywhere, even at the door. Right... at the door...

There was Morris. Right at the door. He'd _opened_ the door, and was coming in, and right behind him, following like a lion stalks its prey, was Cameron Phillips.

So stupid.


	4. The Girlfriend

**Away**

Chapter Four: The Girlfriend

Disclaimer: Thank you, CIsaac and Camelot Girl, for beta reading.

**Visual magnifiers optimized for maximum input. Select target.**

The music was loud -- it was incredibly distracting, even for Cameron. If it struck the right chords in her, she was usually liable to just... stand there and take it in. Or dance. She truly found it mesmerizing at times. The singer was (probably) male, yelling on about fire and volcanoes. The tune itself was continuously present, a humming, choir-like undertone accompanying the electronic overtones. She tilted her head slowly to the side as Morris shambled into the foyer ahead of her. She lingered at the threshold to the outside, staring at the scene in front of her as she attempted to focus on scanning the crowd.

**Broad range, multiple targets verified. Activating facial mapping utilities, copyright CDS® 2026. Scanning... please wait. **

"Cameron?" Morris said, looking back at her. One could assume his confusion was evident at her seemingly blank stare, but Cameron certainly wouldn't know, much less care. She didn't bother with him. Faces lit up in her HUD and became grid-lined as Cameron scanned the crowd of party-goers, showing as much interest in their mirth, plights, drug-induced highs, and boredom as she would for a clump of dirt. There was probably a wealth of social data to be found in this place, though. Things that she wouldn't mind giving extra attention to, whether for her own enjoyment or simply to enhance her infiltration skills. Unfortunate that she had absolutely no time for any of that.

**Returning results. Checking index for correlation with prime subject... please wait.**

She was fully expecting there to be nothing. Chances were, even if he was indulging himself even slightly, John wouldn't be so naive as to loiter around the most easily accessible part of the house. His mother had taught him better than that.

**Match found, 1/26 subjects. Stand by for verification. **

... but not well enough, it seemed.

Off to the right! Cameron's slackened stare became piercing and narrowed, her lips drawing back slightly in a tight grimace. She closed down the utility, ignoring the various prompts that implored that she wait for full verification, and started off toward the flagged subject. Morris let out a pained "C-Cameron?!" as she stalked away from him.

**Enhancing visual sensors. Magnifying... Sub-prime obstruction found. Terminate obstruction at discretion.**

She ignored the combat-routine prompt. In pursuit mode, indiscriminate murder was usually the preferred course when approaching marked subjects; it swiftly removed human obstruction between the unit and the marked target, _and_ it increased the likelihood of a stray shell/plasma blast striking the target. Cameron had learned, very early on, to forgo such "preferences." Things were much different on the other side, after all. They implanted you with as much programming that tried to respect random civilians as was possible. Try not to kill out of hand. Be sociable, even if it's not strictly necessary. Smile when you can. It was cluttersome, to be honest, and sometimes it created lag in regular CPU functions, but it was (unfortunately or not) unable to be divorced from a reprogrammed Terminator's mind... unless said Terminator went rogue.

But she wasn't rogue. She would never be rogue, and so she pushed her way past two chattering girls instead of breaking their frail spines. Moving beyond the unoccupied flight of stairs at the back of the room, she was faced with the back of what had to be John. Hair was almost exact (if not completely, of course,) stance, body weight, height. This was him. This in mind, she remained unflagging in her approach towards him, absently powering up low-level combat routines.

And her more civil functions. Conversational index, expression readier, stance modifier... It was fully possible that he wouldn't even struggle, having already seen the error of his ways. Or he would be too inhibited to even bother resisting. She could fully talk her way through this, so she was going to attempt to use her infiltration routines first.

He was wearing a different shirt, Cameron noted idly. But she was already extending her hand to tap him on the shoulder, and backing out of this simply because he was in different clothing would be preposterous. She brought her index and middle right fingers down on his shoulder. If she wanted, she could have driven them through his shoulder blade like a piece of shrapnel, which would easily create enough pain to keep him nice and right where he was.

But it was John. She'd go to great lengths to recover him, but wounding him out of hand was completely superfluous... not to mention cruel. She didn't want to be cruel to him.

She said, "John."

John turned around, and as he did the music that had been so mesmerizingly loud ended with an explosive crescendo of noise. He was wielding a goblet of red wine in his right hand, and he raised a slow eyebrow at her as he took a sip from it. A frown was etched across his face, but...

Oh.

**ALERT. Facial map forced return. 87.99 percent match.**

Eyes didn't match up fully, cheek bones weren't nearly as pronounced as they should have been. Subtle, but different enough. Cameron's auditory cue index core scrambled to find a word that was fitting for the situation other than simple, clinical definitions and analysis. Having loitered in this timeline for almost a year now, it didn't take long for her to select an appropriate verdict for this.

_Shit. _

The frown turned upside down as the man who looked _a lot_ like John but, really, wasn't even close to him grinned, "Wow. Hey there."

"John?" Morris, who'd followed Cameron with all the loyalty of a recently knighted lord, said. Like Cameron, he did a swift double-take, albeit with eons more casualness, "Oh, hey, never mind."

The doppelganger raised another eyebrow, his smirk disappearing, "Mistaken identity?" He took a sip from his wine glass and stared into it, as though to consider what he'd said.

**Reaction required. Reboot if unable to comply. **

Cameron shook herself out of it, dropping fully into infiltration mode, "Hehe, sorry!" Behind her, Morris positively melted. She went on, "I just thought you were somebody else, my bad."

The man chuckled ruefully around another sip of wine, "I'm getting that _way_ too much tonight," he cleared his throat and threw his voice, "_Baum_, where's the fuckin' beer? _John,_ get me some joints, yeah! _John... _gah, it's like no one recognizes me." He giggled, implying to Cameron that his last comment had been sarcastic.

"John Baum?" Cameron asked, seeking hard confirmation.

The man nodded, eyes wide and eccentric, "You _would_ assume that, wouldn't ya?"

"Where did you see him last?"

"Uh, why should we recognize you?" Morris chimed in. They both ignored him as the man looked off past his left shoulder.

"Just a minute ago in the kitchen. He left, though. I think some girl promised to... I dunno, blow him or something."

"Blow..." Cameron echoed.

"Yeah, he gophered some heavy drugs over to her and Bryant." He winked conspiratorially at the two, "And I don't think they'll be together much longer, if you catch my drift. _Big_ argument cause she whispered, heh, sweet nothings or something into the poor kid's ear, so he's probably gonna get himself a beating from Bryant." He finished off with a quick drink from the glass and let out a happy sigh, "I should come out here more often, although this place _is _kind of a drag if you look hard enough."

"Where did he go after that?" Cameron asked, not ready to let the man ramble on more than she could tolerate. This was a bit much to take in, and most of it was confusing. Clearly John had been trying to... well, do certain things with what free time he'd been able to steal for himself, but it looked like things were about to turn completely FUBAR with this other girl, and the associated boyfriend. And how much did John know about _that?_

The guy shrugged, "Gimme your number?"

Morris squawked, "Hey, just answer the fuckin' question, bro."

The guy raised a hand, "I don't mean, uh... whew, brain hurts, hold on..." He started to hold his head and groan. Too much alcohol, likely. Blood-alcohol scan from her touching him on the shoulder indicated that he'd probably had a bit too much. Cameron sniffed and turned to Morris, intending to send him on his way so there would be no more distractions.

"It's ok, Morris. You have a cellphone?" She put on her best, most sensuous smile, although with Morris she could have looked like a dead fish and _still_ have emotionally disarmed him. She acted like this mostly to distance him from whatever offer the other guy was about to bring out. Exchanging of telephone numbers usually preceded regular, possibly romantic interactions if the participants were of opposite sex.

Morris nodded, all too eager to go along with whatever plan she was concocting. Brought it out and showed it to her, too. Her smiled got brighter, "Great. Call me if you see John. And if you see John, and he sees you, don't tell him I'm here. Ok? Just..." she winked, "call me. You have my number, right?"

"Y-yeah, Cameron, sure!"

"Alright, good. Call me if you see him." She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. It was quick, indifferent, and lacked even the slightest modicum of passion. But it worked wonders just the same, sending Morris scampering off into the crowd, nearly tripping over himself several times.

She turned back to the other guy, who was grinning triumphantly. He wasn't stroking his forehead anymore, and it occurred to Cameron that he'd been watching her the whole time instead of suffering under the throes of a headache, "I knew it. You can _act,_ girl."

Ironic. She wasn't gonna pursue that chain, though, much as she appreciated the assessment of her abilities, "Where did John go?"

"I'm just saying, with a bit of practice you'd be really good. So give me your number. I'm sort of a director, I do a bunch of indie films, right? It'd be awesome if you wanted to-"

She took a step forward and placed a hand on the guy's neck. Didn't squeeze, just slowly encircled his neck, imagining it as nothing more than a pencil in her hand. An easily breakable pencil. The wine glass tumbled from the guy's grasp and shattered on the carpeted floor. He squeaked as Cameron cocked her head and spoke. "Tell me."

Her stare alone was probably persuasive enough. The man pointed up, smiling shakily. "Upstairs. I think. Lemme go? Personal space, alright? It's cool."

She released him. "Yes. It's cool. Thank you for getting to the point."

She moved to leave, but, on a bit of consideration, paused. If John was expecting someone, chances were he wouldn't be moving to leave at this moment. She could get a feel for the house and its various exits before she attempted to collect him. Besides, something the man had said... unnerved her. "Another girl is joining him?"

The man was slowly massaging his neck, but he didn't look too perturbed by Cameron's near-violent behavior. He did seem decidedly mournful over his glass of wine, though... "Yeah."

"To _blow_ him?"

He stared. "Uh. I was just..." he coughed, "speculating? Yeah. I don't think she's too happy with Bryant and I guess she wants to rub it in. She's completely fucked up with drugs, y'know. It does things to ya."

Cameron frowned, "What does that mean, though? Blowing."

The man looked like he'd swallowed a bug; "Uh wha? Blow? You don't know? Uh... it..."

Cameron leaned forward, "818-555-0146."

A loud beep emanated from the guy's cellphone as he finished recording Cameron's number, almost a second after she'd recited it. He looked up and frowned. "Uh. Well. To... uh, blow is..." He explained it, and by the end his face had turned a rather interesting shade of red. He seemed to be doing his best to seem casual, though, like he wasn't bothered by it, as if these questions were posed to him on a regular basis.

Cameron, on the other hand, was _quite_ bothered by it. What was John thinking? Why would he want something like that, what would _make_ him want something like that? Questions like _that_ were almost completely unsolvable for Cameron, they were better left to humans. And she felt incredibly out of her league, all of a sudden. It was incredibly frustrating.

"Thank you for explaining," she said tonelessly.

The man gave Cameron an steady (or unsteady, depending on how much alcohol he had in him) look, "Is he... your boyfriend, or something? Is he not supposed to be here?"

"He's not supposed to be here."

Behind them, a eighteen-odd aged boy with dirty blonde hair stomped past and started up the stairs.

"Live and let live, though, right?" The guy smiled again, but it was rather skittish now.

She started toward the stairs, "No. Thank you for your cooperation."

Behind her the guy yelled, "I'll call you!"

Cameron spared just enough time to give him a roll of her eyes.

--

_A little earlier..._

Trying to formulate an escape plan while drunk was quite a challenge for John, and it wasn't something he (if he ended up succeeding) particularly wanted to relive any time soon. In fact, he was quite positive that he would never _touch_ a drop of alcohol again until he was legal, and that wasn't even a sure thing. He felt like he was under water at times... everything, the halls, the floor, corners, bannisters, the nice paintings, were incredibly blurry and indistinct, they kept moving back and forth like he was in some sort of Escher-esque maze, or something like that. He made a full circle in the second-floor hallway (it went around the structure of the house; the rooms were built into the interior) before even realizing that he had done so. The doors looked vaguely different on his second circuit, so...

It really didn't matter. He felt fucking sick to his stomach now, and anxiety was growing in his gut like a fungus, just getting bigger and bigger until it consumed him and he was nothing more than a body that ran around in thoughtless panic. That stupid shit Morris had led her here, _Cameron,_ she was gonna fucking find him eventually (thank god he'd had the sense to run when he first saw her, a second more and she'd had spotted him, no doubt) and, well, she'd _capture_ him, drag him back to what he so desperately wanted to avoid. Forever.

He had to get out of here, and his inebriation wasn't fucking helping. Take a moment. Stop. Stop. _Stop running._ He stopped. He let out a loud groan of pain as the world started to spin around him, gleefully joining his terror at being apprehended in making him feel sick. Where were the stairs? Could he collapse here in private without her finding him right off the bat? He looked around. He was at the back part of the hall. No stairs.

He collapsed, and the few potato chips he'd helped himself to during the party came rushing out of his mouth and onto the floor. Everything was building around in him like a molotov cocktail, getting ready to explode as soon as the right moment came. If he saw Cameron he'd probably just sit there and start yelling wordlessly, he'd lose himself entirely in the anguish at having been caught so soon, at never having had a real start, at wasting himself on this fucking party.

Ok. But you're not at that, yet, are you Johnny? No way, jose. You're still good for now. Just bite your tongue and go.

He slowly got up and stepped around what he'd thrown up. One step at a time, that's all you gotta do. There's a door, John. Go try it.

He jiggled the handle. Unlocked, but someone yelled something from within the room, whatever it was. A bathroom?

"You mind?!" the voice yelled again after John started to push the door in. White lights. Tiled floor. A bathroom, so no windows. He closed the door and wandered off without so much as an apology to the guy within. His head was really starting to pound now, like he was in a tunnel and everything was echoing, that was what the world sounded like now. The music fluctuated in tone, in volume, it seemed to waver. Echo echo... and then loud as hell, like, overwhelming. Christ, he hadn't even gotten high tonight and here his fear was acting as an unwelcome substitute.

Next hall. There were a few doors, probably guest rooms. They were build on the wrong side, though, so they wouldn't have windows. There were windows on the right side of the hall, but he'd already looked out of them; if he went out those it'd be a straight fucking drop. He'd either snap his neck or get a sprained ankle if he jumped when he was like this, and he couldn't afford neither. Jesus Christ, was he trapped? Was the only way out... downstairs? No. Fuck no. He couldn't risk that, there had to be a fucking way out from up here!

Ok... uh...

Why, he could keep going! Upstairs! To Bryant's fucking huge room, of course! He hadn't seen a stairwell heading up, though... only down. That probably meant the route upstairs was behind one of a door on this floor... which meant he'd have to waste even more time trying to find out which one would get him there. Mother...

He took in a deep breath and stumbled toward the closest door, reaching out for the handle. And... he could have _sworn_ his hand was right over it, but instead of touching brass it just passed right over. John cursed and lifted his hand slightly. Nothing. Down. There it was, nice and cold. He pushed the handle down and looked inside. A picture strewn wall, smell of mothballs... old bed. A guest room, ladies and gentlemen.

He closed the door with a resounding _slam!_ John cursed again and started toward the very next door, which looked about the same as the last one. Jesus, how many guests did these people expect at a time?

A lot, obviously. Or at least Bryant expected a lot of guests. It was a fucking party, which meant...

He opened the next door and closed it immediately, ignoring the surprised exclamations from within. Another guest room. With guests. On the bed. And... wasn't it ironic that he could have been having this if Cameron didn't fucking show up?

Oh, jeez, he'd forgotten all about that. It sucked. Could have ended this frankly stupid night with at least a bit of satisfaction, but no... she had to show up. To be honest, now that it was avoided, he wasn't sure if not deflowering himself tonight was actually a bad thing. For a variety of reasons, most of which he simply had no time to think about. But goddamn, Bryant's girlfriend had looked... jeez.

Well. Next door, then. Stay on task, John.

It was locked. He gave it a few well-meaning slams with his hand before he went into his backpack, took out the Beretta, and tried breaking the handle with the pistol butt. The brass held without flinching, though, which sent John on his way.

He made another, growingly feverish circuit around the second floor before he found himself back in front of that door. All the other rooms had been the bathroom, the parents bedroom, or the guest rooms, bestrewn with either fornication or emptiness. All useless. And the stairs, which was just plain suicidal.

Ok. He'd packed a few paperclips. Given a minute and that door would be open like it hadn't been locked in the first place. He went back into his stuff and removed two paperclips. Straightened them out and started working on the lock, doing his best to keep his hands straight as he worked.

God, but he could barely feel anything, let alone _hear._ Even if he got it unlocked, how would he know? Jiggle the handle every few seconds, sure. He started doing that, although it didn't seem like he was making much progress at all. A minute passed with no results, and when he realized that the clips weren't even fully inserted yet, he felt a hand touch his neck.

"FUCK!" he yelled, throwing himself to the ground. He threw his hands over his head and prepared to kick out with his feet. He was ready to fucking do _anything_ to her, he knew she wouldn't kill him, she'd only try to make him stop fighting what was coming. He wasn't gonna SURRENDER, THOUGH! No FUCKING way!

He tensed his legs up to kick just as he heard a low, sultry giggle.

"That's the plan..." a girl's voice said.

Hell.

John looked up. Bryant's girlfriend was standing over him, looking pleased as all hell with herself. She giggled mischievously when his eyes met hers, "Scare you?"

He stared, unable to say anything. A fucking huge lump had moved up into his throat. He just stared at her, wishing he could get rid of her, or something. Wishing she could just disappear, like, right in front of him. Poof. And all the same, he wished _they _could... huuh.

He wasn't even breathing.

Bryant's girlfriend shifted uncomfortably for a bit, her drug-induced bubbliness probably trying to reconcile itself with John's silence.

"What?" she said after another moment.

John cleared his throat. Loudly, embarrassedly. He was shaking all over. Here comes the impact. The cocktail's flying, twirling through the air. What a big explosion it will make, "U-uh, nothing." For some reason he gestured toward the door, but he didn't say a thing.

She followed his hand and her weird, slightly off looking smile came back, "I took the key from Bryant," --giggle-- "so we can go up there if you want."

John nodded, "Uh. Yeah." Dear god, what was this?

"Good. That'd be better." She went over to the door, and, well, lo and behold there was a key. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. Beyond the threshold was the foot of a stairwell. John nearly passed out when he saw it.

Together they went upstairs, the girl absently fiddling with John's jacket, as though it wasn't fully to her liking. Maybe she wanted it off.

Bryant's room was much as John had envisioned it. A huge, king-sized bed with plain blue sheets and coverings. Sports paraphernalia lined the walls in the form of hung-up jerseys, posters, and trophies on wooden shelves. Exercise equipment to the far back. There was a walled-off section of the room at the corner; probably a jacuzzi or something. Big stereo. Fancy looking couch, plasma screen TV. All darkened. The room was dark. John's eyes instantly went for the window. It was tall (went from a little below the ceiling all the way down to the floor,) rectangularly shaped, and there was a latch on the side of it.

Leaving Bryant's girlfriend to stumble toward the bed, John ran over to the window and looked out. Los Angele's skyline was bright as hell in the distance, shining like a vast field of beacons with its artificial lights. John stared at the buildings for a moment before he turned his eyes down... and much like the skyscrapers, his eyes lit up. Oh, _fuck_ yes. Just like his house, there was a bit of roof below the window, and more than enough room to walk around on. He could get out easily from here. He was golden.

His hand went toward the latch to unlock it as he heard the girl's voice; "C'mere, cutie."

Oh, right, her. Well.

_Twirl twirl_ goes the cocktail. Just leave. No. Don't even respond to her. Get out, watch your footing, and jump. Hell, you're a sober as a fucking judge now, you've got the determination. You'll do it. Then make your way along the roof and jump off. And run like hell. You've got it, Johnny boy. Most importantly, forget this drug-addled bitch exists. Don't look at her. Don't talk to her. Don't even turn in her general direction. _Leave._

He grasped the latch. And she said, "What the hell're you doing?"

First time... first time... probably _the_ time. She was _willing,_ he was _ready_, it was fucking perfect, he couldn't ask for anything else. Besides her, being, y'know, drunk, and her being, y'know, not Cheri or some normal girl, and the circumstances, y'know, being completely retarded. Would he even remember something like this? And wouldn't he regret it like hell down the line? Maybe... maybe. No way to find out except to do it, eh?

That was stupid reasoning. But it was fucking persuasive. He had a fucking huge hard on, and he could barely stand this anymore. Jesus Christ...

Just leave. Just stay. How long... how long till _she_ comes up here looking for you? How long does she stay subtle before she gets nervous and starts running around? It's a gamble, my friend. Pleasure over pragmatism.

Ugh.

Blame the alcohol. Blame young stupidity. Blame outright foolishness. John's only thought was _It'll be quick, at least. I'll be out of here in five minutes. Less, probably._

He moved his hand away from the latch and sauntered over to the bed. He sat down next to her and he looked at her. How old was she? Jeez. He was making a mistake here, he knew that, but for some reason his mind refused to wrap around the danger implicit in this.

God, he could barely see her in this darkness.

"What?" he said.

She was still smiling, like she was supremely satisfied with what was going to happen. John really didn't know why. He knew _he_ was nervous as all hell. How much sex did she get, anyway? How casual was it a thing for her? What motivated her? It couldn't be the drugs he'd gotten them, she was too...

"I said I wanted to repay the favor, uh... what's your name? Baum something."

"Bill," John found himself saying.

"Bill, yeah. So let's go, hey?"

Without further adieu she removed her shirt, revealing a pinkish looking bra underneath. John's eyes widened. Holy shit. He didn't do anything himself, his hands were shaking like _mad._

"W-wait, hold on."

She grimaced, "I can tell you want it, B... uh, Bill. I can see it," and she pointed, very frankly, at his crotch. "Let's do it, c'mon. Come _on._"

"W-what's the rush? Yo, hold on. Just..." he raised his hands. Jesus, you stupid fuck, you _wanted_ this, so what's the hold up?! Do it, man! Do it and leave! "... Just tell me why you're doing this. For real?"

She sighed. "Does it matter? Really? I just want to fuck, c'mon, I know you're good for it, c'mon. Guy like you's probably fucked a dozen times, I can tell."

She really was rather stupid. Or the drugs were firmly in the driver's seat of her mind, her own judgment cowering in the backseat.

"Tell me," he said, putting more force into his voice. Maybe he could sound like a mean drunk.

She leaned toward him, "That... little bastard down there, B-Bryant, he's... I can't..." she raised her hands to her face, eyes shutting tightly, "can't stand him. He can't do anything for me, he's... _looking_ at other sluts, it's so _retarded._ I just want to see what it's like with someone who can... y'know..." she opened her eyes and smirked at him. God, she was stupid.

"So you wanna get back at him," John said, and he was surprised that sentence came out as normal sounding as it did.

The girl nodded. John tore his jacket off and started on his belt, "Good enough for me, c'mon." _Jump _right in that shit, John. That's right. No fucking hesitation. Bryant's (former, John was guessing) girlfriend cackled gleefully and took off her pants. The scene was so _surreal,_ so... John could barely believe what was going on. Was he doing this? For real? Should he look around to see if he wasn't watching a movie where he was doing this, or if he was dreaming it, or fantasizing it, or...

No, he was here, and he was fumbling clumsily with his belt buckle. Savior of mankind was living up to his pre-destined title _reaaaaal_ fuckin' well.

Her bra was off when he looked back. Only her underwear on. Holy crap. _Holy fucking crap._ She was sitting there, waiting, that high-as-a-kite smile on her face like everything in the world was going her way.

"Lay down, I'll help," she said.

John flopped down on the bed and let her take over. Holy crap.

She expertly removed his belt, even from where she was sitting. It was clear that she'd done this a lot. John let a smirk come onto his face. It was at this point that he realized... he'd been wrong all along. This was good. He wanted this. It was right. It was the mindless, inane pleasure he'd privately wanted to experience his whole teenaged life, but had no way of fulfilling besides... well, using hand A or hand B. He felt like he'd won the fucking lottery. Jesus, woman, hurry up!

She was all breathlessness and hurry as she started to play around with him beneath his jeans when John looked past her, hearing a slight, very subtle groaning of floorboards across the room. The girl, who was probably seeing in several interesting colors and hearing equally interesting but non-existant sounds, paid no attention as John's mouth fell open in shock, his eyes widening.

Bryant stood at the top of the stairs, his hands at his sides. They were bunched up into fists. Bryant's face was almost entirely obscured in darkness, but John could have sworn his eyes were fully visible, startlingly white and staring. He just stood there, and he just looked at what was going on. His entire body seemed to move steadily, upwards and downwards as he took in loud, rage-filled breaths.

Whatever his girlfriends opinion of him, he was clearly not about to let her go. Or let _this_ go, at least.

"Uh..." John said, almost whispering. His jeans were at his knees, and her hands were closing around the hem of his boxers. He looked at her. Or at her breasts. Whichever, she'd get it.

"What?" she said, sounding exasperated as all hell.

Bryant stalked loudly over to the side of the room, grabbed a hefty looking baseball bat from a rack, and used it to smash the window. Glass flash-crystalized in mid-air, shining brilliantly for a split second before the whole thing fell away and down below. Bryant's girlfriend screamed. She bounced away from John and stared at her boyfriend. John quickly pulled his pants back up and jumped off the bed. He'd leave the belt and jacket. Couldn't leave the backpack, though, that had to come, and it was laying near Bryant. Jesus fuck...

John hunched himself over slowly, tensing up, getting ready to run. He gave himself a few good slaps to the face to wake himself the fuck up. The girl was covering her chest. Bryant's head turned methodically between them, as though deciding who he should attack first.

Below the third floor, the music remained on, the people's voices continued to carry upwards. The shattering glass was probably no big thing to them. You expected things to break at parties, right?

John stared at the bat. It was big. Not aluminum, but wood. Still had plenty of killing power if you swung hard enough, and at the right place. Bryant was drunk and high, which meant his aim would be off, but he wouldn't tire as easily. He'd keep going until he was put down or he put someone _else_ down. John gave the posters a quick, measured glance. He had to squint a bit to get past the darkness and blurriness, though. His head pounded like a motherfucker, but he ignored it.

The posters had a bunch of baseball league players on them, in varying poses with mitts or bats. Bryant was a baseball player, then. He had trophies. He was probably really accurate, then.

"Bryant..." the girl said, her voice no higher than a whisper.

Bryant ignored her and took a step forward, the length of the bat slapping up and down in his left hand. The girl squalled in terror, raising her arms to ward off the expected attack. Bryant was only looking at her now.

He took another step forward, longer this time. Moving away from the backpack, away from John's pistol within. John started to move, very slightly, toward the backpack.

"Bryant, please... don't..." she said, her voice squealing between sobs of fear.

"You bitch," he said. He raised the bat and swung at her. Her shielding arms threw off the blow, but she cried out in pain when the hit came. Bryant moved in on her, feinting this time with the bat, and then he swung it around under his arm and jabbed it into her stomach. She groaned and keeled over, the air from her own lungs going right out of her. Bryant raised the bat and brought it down on her head, eliciting a loud _crack!_ as it struck home. The girl screamed with blood-curlding volume now. Someone had to have heard it downstairs, but John had no way of knowing. He could still hear the music pounding even up here, so...

Focus, focus. Don't panic.

John reached out for his backpack, being in arms length now.

And he saw stars as Bryant turned around suddenly and struck him in the back with the bat. John yelled in pain and fell forward onto the floor. Bryant slammed the bat at his chest but only hit John's right arm. It still hurt like a bitch, and he moaned pathetically.

"Little shit..." Bryant said, his voice loud, now rasping, insane sounding. He was a guy who liked control, John realized. He'd lost that over this situation, over his girlfriend, and he wasn't taking to it quite well. The drugs had probably pushed him over to violence, but John wouldn't have been surprised if he'd have gone this route either way. "That's all you ARE!" he smacked John again with the bat.

He stopped for a moment to draw an arm over his eyes, and he sniffled, "Meg... you little bitch, why did you-"

She was behind him. Blood dribbled from her hair, but she looked like it didn't faze her even slightly. She started flailing, slapping him, punching, kicking. She was _screaming, _"GET OUT OF HERE! GET OUT OF HERE YOU STUPID SHIT!"

John struggled to stand, staring at them, his head pounding, eyes flaring with red, white, with tears at the pain, at the situation he'd put himself in. His fault! _His fault!_ _He was so stupid!_

"YOU DON'T DO NOTHING FOR ME, YA HEAR? NOTHING! GET OUTTA HERE!"

Bryant soaked up his girl's attacks like they were nothing and brought the bat around on her midsection. She cried out, but she had no time to do anything else, as Bryant quickly followed up by slamming the bat against the side of her head.

_Crack!_

She stumbled, screaming incessantly now, unendingly. She staggered around, arms reaching out like she was blind. She turned, turned... turned...

All John could think about was this: _God, and she meant nothing to me, too. That's the worst part about this. _

And she stumbled around. And toward the window, now bare of glass, wind whipping around outside. Nothing but air. She started to scream again as she stumbled forward once more, teetered on the edge, and fell out. The scream cut short a second or two later.

"MEG!"

Bryant ran over to the window and stared out. Silent for a moment, looking down. He sniffled again. John just stared, and, for some insane reason, he thought of the falling girl again. Jordan.

"Oh... Jesus..." Bryant muttered.

John reached toward the backpack. Grabbed it. He looked at Bryant.

She was dead. She was dead. He'd gotten her killed. They were about to fucking have sex and she was dead now. Bryant killed her. She was dead because of John, _dead _dead **dead **DEAD. Ohhhh _**GOD!**_

It all happened so fast. Amazing, right? Amazing how...

_Twirl twirl- IMPACT!_

The molotov cocktail in John's stomach hit the ground and exploded, fire raging in all directions. He collapsed to the ground, eyes staring blankly. Ignored Bryant. He was crying again. He was moaning again. His mind was running through all the motions, the guilt, the horror, the terror of it all... again. Again, again, again. His life was loop. It was circle. He couldn't evade the angst, the little, pathetic sadness in his heart that seemed to steer him towards these things-

You know what? No.

He got up and wiped a hand over his eyes. He wasn't fucking sad, he wasn't gonna fucking cry, he was ANGRY AS HELL. _There was fucking Bryant._ Standing there, and y'know, HE KILLED HER. It wasn't John's fault, John had nothing to do with this guy's craziness, this guy was a whack, a sociopath, and John was fucking angry.

He reached into his backpack. Looked up.

Bryant looked at John, his back against the shattered window. John stalked forward, his hand grasping the hard metal and plastic of the Beretta. His thumb found the safety and clicked it off.

The gun was out then, and it was aimed at Bryant's chest. Bryant smirked, as if this was funny. John didn't think it was fucking funny, he was gonna kill the guy. His index finger was squeezing slowly against the trigger when Bryant stepped back and fell out.

John didn't even fire. He blinked and replaced the pistol without a sound. Someone was running up the stairs, very loudly. John ran over to the window and gave a clinical look to the ground below. Bryant was sprawled out on the grass, his head at a unnatural angle. His girlfriend was similarly dead. And John was sobbing to himself again, his anger seemingly millennial old in his mind. So long forgotten. This was just batshit, it was almost like a nothing, like nothing had happened, except it was death, and he'd been there to witness it. He'd been an... intimate player in it. He could barely believe this.

God, why'd he come to this party? He should have expected something like this. After this week?! Of course!

Another fluke, right? Was he gonna keep reassuring himself? No. What he needed to do was fucking THINK, and not act like a depressed little SHIT all the time. Even when running, he needed to THINK. That was the problem here, he'd acted on impulse, on a whim tonight, it was fucking horrible. No more. And oh god, what was he doing here rationalizing it all?! He had to get out of here.

Ok, there was the roof. It started just a few feet down from the window and then it slanted downwards until it was one or two yards above the lawn. If you wanted to fling yourself out like the other two did, it wouldn't be hard, though. He turned his head slightly and saw Cameron Philips out of the corner of his eye.

Ooh, right then. He flopped down and put his legs out. Cameron said nothing. She was sprinting toward him, arms raised, going for his neck.

The choreography here was non-existent, but to the on-looker it would have probably looked rehearsed. John turned around swiftly and ducked down onto the roof, digging his shoes in against the side of the house where the roof met the actual structure. Cameron stood over him, arms lashing out to grab him and bring him back up. John grabbed Cameron's legs with both of his hands and pulled.

With her hands outstretched along with most of her body, hanging out beyond the broken window, the weight imbalance here for Cameron was just enough to send her spiraling out over John's crouched body. She twirled through the air, not even attempting to grab him anymore, and slammed down onto the grass. For a moment she laid there in the grass alongside Bryant and his girlfriend, blood slowly pooling under their corpses. Then her head tilted slightly. She looked up. Got up.

Without pausing she walked off the front lawn and stood a little underneath where John was crouching, her head swiveled up to him.

She spoke, and he could hear her voice perfectly, even with the music and voices pounding incessantly in the background. His blood chilled as she talked to him, "I'm going to stay right here. I have you zeroed on my thermal scanners. If you try to escape from the roof, I'll simply run to you, and then I'll strangle you until you're unconscious." Her sharp as an arrow gaze softened somewhat, "Just come down to me, John. Please don't run anymore."

"You don't understand!" John yelled. "Leave me alone, let me go, c'mon!"

"No. I'm supposed to protect you, John. I can't protect you if you're not with me. With your mother. At your house. Living like you should."

"_I can't!"_

"That's hardly adequate reasoning," Cameron said sensibly. She looked down at the almost nude corpse of Bryant's girlfriend, "Was she blowing you?"

"_What?!"_

"Just asking."

John realized at this point that his balls fucking hurt like hell. What the fuck was he gonna do? She was right there. Standing there, waiting for him. He was done for. Things were crystal clear now, there was no Bryant or anything like that, no party, it was just John and Cameron.

"Did you kill them?"

John struggled to get a little breath in, "N-n-no. They killed themselves."

"Oh..." She looked down at the corpses. "Why would they do that?"

_"Shut up! Just shut up, Cam!"_

"Don't be so loud. Nobody's realized that they're dead yet. We can leave without implication, without police involvement. Come down. I'll catch you."

She had a point. He slapped a hand over his mouth. Alright, focus now. Get up. _Stand up._

He raised himself up, carefully balancing himself. Slowly, he started to half-walk half-crawl along the roof, heading for the right-hand corner of the house. Cameron silently tracked him, keeping pace with his hobbling form. John slowly looked around the neighborhood as he went along. A ton of parked cars around. Chances were one of them still had keys inside, but he wasn't gonna risk looking. He'd be better off running.

But how?!

He reached the corner of the roof and looked off to the side. Only way forward was up from here, and _here_ was the lowest part to the ground. He could probably jump and the only injury he'd incur would be his legs feeling a bit like jello afterward. Cameron was standing right where he needed to jump to, of course. She was really in the perfect position. No matter what he did, she'd be there. All she had to do was wait.

"John, just let me catch you. We'll go back home."

"No," John said, "I'm through with that."

"John... please. You don't know what you're doing."

"I do, Cameron... I do." He ran a hand over his forehead, tossing a few sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes, "I can't lead. I won't lead. It's not gonna happen, that's all there is to it, whether I'm here or on my own, it doesn't matter."

"You're just doubting yourself now. It's natural. And it will pass. The leader in you has yet to come out, but it will. You said that many times to your soldiers. That they will learn."

"No."

"Be rational, John."

"I'm stuck on a roof and two people just committed suicide, and I'm being stalked by a cyborg, oh, yeah, REAL FUCKING rational, I can do that!"

"John..."

He blanked her out. Nothing he didn't already know, nothing he hadn't heard. All the same. All of it was bullshit. God, what could he do... why wasn't anyone coming out to see what was wrong, were they all blind or some shit?

John blinked. They weren't coming out cause they were distracted. There was music, conversation... it was all loud, and engrossing. What was louder than all that?

He pulled the Beretta from his backpack. The safety was still off.

Cameron sighed, "Are you going to shoot me, John?"

"Yeah," he said, voice ringing with sudden punchiness.

She shrugged, "It won't do you any good. It will make things worse, in fact."

John pointed the gun at her. She raised her arms to her head. John pointed upward and fired off four times, the gun roaring with explosive energy after each discharge, spent casings flying to the grass below. John lowered the pistol. Cameron was staring at him, head cocked to the side.

Even out here he could hear them; "IS THAT A GUN?!" "SOMEONE'S SHOOTING!" and above all else, "RUUUN!"

Cameron ran around the side of the house, still keeping her eye on John. Her teeth were clenching with naked frustration now.

The party-goers started to flee from the house like a deluge of water leaving a harbor, rushing back away from the beach, into the ocean. They ran in all directions, either for their cars or beyond the street, into the neighborhood. A lot of them ran really fast, zig-zagging, like they'd experienced this sort of thing a few times before. As they ran, John shimmied along the roof, away from Cameron.

A lot of people were standing around the front yard, getting on their cellphones for obvious reasons. Among them was the annoying dude from before, at the kitchen table, although he was just staring at the bodies instead of crying for help on 911. He was really looking at them, his face slack with disbelief. Well, yeah, of course. He knew. And he was probably surprised not to find John's corpse among them. Which obviously meant...

John squinted. The guy's keys were out. He was looking to bug out, sure enough.

Alright then. John hefted his backpack, kept a firm grip on the Beretta, and leaped off the roof. He felt a distinct sense of vertigo, where the ground seems to stare up at you as you come at it. There's a moment of just... time seeming to stop as you come at the floor. It looms at you, huge all of a sudden. Everything's a blur.

John hit the ground and rolled to absorb the shock, sending waves of pain all across his body, instead of just in one place where bones were likely to shatter, where muscles could be strained to their breaking point. His legs didn't feel like moving anymore, but at least he didn't feel half as drunk as he had a few minutes before... mostly because of his adrenaline, his guilt, the terror of watching someone beat a girl half to death, and then having both of them commit suicide. When all of this was over... if he was still by himself, he'd go to sleep for a long time.

Anyway, he got up and started running. Cameron abandoned all pretenses of staying subtle to avoid seeming like she'd murdered the two teenagers and started off after John. John grabbed the guy's arm and yelled, "_Where's your car?!"_

The guy looked at him. At Cameron. John brandished his pistol, but he didn't point it. The guy cursed and started running alongside John, leading him on. Cameron, who was pretty much quick as lightning, was upon them within seconds, just shy of touching distance. John jabbed the pistol against Cameron's head. A loud _pang_ of metal sounded off, and she jerked back in a mix of surprise and at the force of the blow. John just kept running. He really didn't want to shoot.

The guy leaped into his car. It was a standard sedan, pretty much non-descript. John jerked open the passenger door and yelled for the guy to drive.

"Keys, brother! What the-"

"_Shut up!"_

John opened and slammed the car door into Cameron's body as she reached the vehicle. She staggered back and John pointed the gun at her.

"DON'T MOVE!"

Cameron smirked. Just as the engine gunned, she slapped the pistol out of John's hands, sending it flying into her other hand. She aimed in at the guy behind the wheel.

"CAMERON, NO!" John yelled.

She fired just as John's hand pawed at the barrel of the Beretta. The shot went wide, through the guy's window. The guy started to yell for help. He pulled the transmission stick up to drive. John slammed the door shut. Cameron grabbed the handle and started to pull her hand back, probably intending to send the whole thing off the car's chassis, but suddenly the car lurched forward and peeled off down the street. Cameron's hand went from pulling to gripping, and she started to run alongside the car as it drove.

"HOLY SHIT!" the guy screamed.

"John, tell him to stop," Cameron said calmly, the wind blowing in her hair.

"Let go, Cameron!"

"No."

She aimed the pistol back inside, her expression that of a person about to spray a cockroach with a can of Raid.

John barely gave the situation a thought. He grappled with the pistol and pulled the barrel toward his own head. That would-

To his utter surprise, she fired anyway. She pulled the barrel upward just as she'd realized what he was doing, but she'd already pulled the trigger. John's world lit up and burned as a lick of flame spouted from the core of the pistol. He shut his eyes. He was dead. He'd feel the bullet in a nanosecond, and he'd be dead. He waited to die, wait to _feel_ his death. Waited. A lifetime passed as he waited in that split second for the bullet to pierce his head. There was his birth in a Mexico City hospital, there was him learning how to walk, there was him shooting an AK-47 for the first time, there was him giving Enrique a hug, him watching as Sarah received an illegitimate citizens license for John, him going to school, him in the police station, waiting resignedly to hear that his mother was insane after trying to blow up a Cyberdyne computer factory, him walking in on Todd and Janele for the first time, there was the T-1000 taking shotgun blasts to the head and the wounds just sealed right up, there was Charley proposing to Sarah, there was their shitty little house in Red Valley, and god, here was Cameron, his killer, saying hello to him for the first time, all smiles and deception. And here comes death, to kiss goodbye to all that.

Except he didn't die. His emperor's luck continued to serve him, tossing away death when it finally reared its head. Things moved fast. The bullet skidded across the crown of John's head, sending a sprinkle of blood flying onto the upholstery of the car, sending broken strands of hair flying. Cameron screamed his name, anguish and fear surging through her voice.

John blinked. The top of his head really hurt. The bullet had slammed into the top of the car and had just punched right through. The guy behind the wheel was doing his level best to not crash the car. Cameron stared, her gaze slowly sobering as she realized John wasn't dead. Was she still running out there? It probably would have looked funny to an on-looker.

John wasn't laughing. He grabbed the pistol, barrel first from Cameron's hand, turned it, and slammed it down against her hand, still wrapped around the handle to the door. Sparks flew. He heard metal cracking. He brought it down again. She still refused to let go. John snarled and pressed the Beretta against her knuckles and fired off twice, switching aim for each digit. The bullets tore through synthetic skin and broke through the alloy underneath. Cameron's hand released and she was gone, rolling and stumbling onto the road. Her form was briefly illuminated by the tail lights of the car, and then there was nothing but blackness. John took in a deep, shaking breath and rolled up the window.

He turned to the guy, "We're ok, stay calm." She was gone. It was ok. He'd made it, he'd won. It was over.

"DUDE, are you ok?!"

"F-fine. It missed." His coolness, the clinical detachment of combat was draining from him. The adrenaline was gone. Only fear, only anguish remained. It was too much.

"T-there's blood-"

"I said I'm fine!" His eyes were suddenly blurred, and everything was incredibly muddy and wet looking. Oh, she'd shot him. She'd shot at him. He'd been hit, and it wasn't bad, but... oh god... all of this... He lowered his head, "_I'm fuckin' fine!"_

Astoundingly enough, the guy lapsed into silence, sweat dribbling from his head in beads, his eyes plate-sized. John barely noticed. He was too busy crying like he'd lost a fucking puppy to a car accident. This had been so horrible, so stupid, he could barely stand it, barely believe any of it had actually happened. Just one mistake after another, and it wasn't an improvement on this horrific week already. His desire to get some blissful, mindless pleasure tonight as a way of celebrating had gone down the shitter in so many ways it wasn't even funny. It was fucking tragic, in fact. So he cried again. He'd moved no where tonight, it all felt like more of the same, just instead of his mom and Derek being with him for the ride, or Mike, or Cameron, it was some stupid shit who looked vaguely like him in a getaway car.

He had to fucking think things through tomorrow. Actually think. Instead of just... doing shit without planning, like an idiot.

"It's ok, man. It's ok," the guy was saying. He sounded real soothing about it, too. John could care less about his reassurances. His head really hurt. Was he still bleeding? He'd have to get that looked at.

"I-I'm f-fine."

"H-hey, where do you wanna go, brother? You got the gun and all."

John put the gun away and looked at the other guy, "D-downtown."

The guy grinned, "Hey, like the song, right? Y'know, _Doooowntooown._ Eh?" His smiled faltered. "I'll shut up."

"Yeah," John said. He leaned back against his seat and stared as the car passed through surburbia, heading into Los Angeles proper. Upcoming lights, all different colors, all different shapes. A neon clock went blue as its numbers shifted to read "11:24 PM."

"What a night," John said softly, forcing the words around a yawn.

"No kidding," the guy said. He looked at John, "You've got a lot of explaining to do, brother."

John groaned.

--

Cameron got up. She stared after the car as it roared away, absently magnifying and committing the license plate to her files. Even if she ran she wouldn't reach it. John was evading her in a vehicle for the second time that day. It made her feel like destroying every car she could find.

**Performing diagnostic... please wait.**

**Diagnostic complete:**

**Combat chassis integrity: 96 percent**

**CPU functionality: 75 percent. Errors detected in reasoning/emotional stimuli index. **

**Targeting systems: 0 percent recorded accuracy in recently elapsed combat record. Targeting functionality at 100 percent. Suggest greater moving target efficiency self-study. **

**Logic core: 80 percent. **

**Combat motivators: 100 percent**

She cancelled the diagnostic; everything was _fine... _as far as her systems were concerned. Everything else was pretty fucking far from _fine._ She'd failed to get John. Again. And she was even less likely to recover him now than she had been before. Goddamnit. Why did he have to run? Did he only think about himself? It astounded Cameron, the lengths he'd go to do this thing, this cowardice, this... desire to be alone. Why? Why? That single-word question continued to revolve through her mind.

"Why" did not matter, though. "Why" was irrelevant. There would be no more negotiation. If she encountered him again, she would not hesitate to use force to bring him back in line. To hell with appearances.

Cameron sighed. She'd miss him soon. This fleeting encounter wasn't much, and it had been incredibly unpleasant. She wanted to really talk to him again, in a way, in a forum that wasn't so...

"Cameron!"

She turned to meet Morris, breathless and panting as he reached her, "Jesus... what was that?"

"I was trying to hitch a ride," Cameron said. "They kicked me out."

"_Acquellos peras..._" Morris mumbled. "Fuckers, eh? They could have killed you..."

"_Sí."_

Morris smirked, "Did you find John, at least?"

"No."

"He must have bailed, sorry Cam..." His eyes trailed down to her hand, which was bloody and mangled. He opened his mouth to say something when Cameron briskly started to walk back towards Bryant's house, waving him on with her.

"I'm sorry too," she said. "For him."


	5. The Actor

**Away**

Chapter Five: The Actor

Disclaimer: CIsaac and Camelot Girl are to be thanked for the beta reading of this chapter. As a further disclaimer, the geography presented in this chapter for both the city of Los Angeles and Sacremento is not to be taken as authoritative and most referenced buildings are entirely fictional.

Author's Note: Not much action here, I'm afraid, the length notwithstanding. I'd consider it an interlude and development.

"I wouldn't mind living here," said Derek Reese, turning his head and smiling at Sarah Connor as they walked along Capitol Mall in downtown Sacremento. It was almost pitch black except for the occasional passerby car on the boulevard, headlights illuminating the surprisingly (and, to Derek, stupefyingly) clean road, and the street lamps which flickered over the leafy green islands in the middle of the road. The capitol itself stood lit up several hundred meters down, a dead-ringer for the capitol building in Washington D.C., Derek was given to understand. There were a few prosperous looking buildings all around, but most were dark and seemed quiet. Not even the tallest among their number even hoped to challenge the Los Angeles skyline, of course, but they looked a helluva lot more pleasant.

But Los Angeles didn't have a ferry service. Or a big river. Derek could hear the sounds of ferries going to and fro somewhere to the east, chopping up water as they went. If time permitted he was gonna ask Sarah to go on one while they were here. He'd never been on a boat before. In the meantime, though, they were simply walking among the buildings on Capitol Mall, looking for a very specific place.

A stark white building, reaching for the stars at about ten stories, lay ahead of Derek and Sarah as they walked towards it. They were doing their level best not to seem very interested in it. They weren't looking at much of anything, in fact, much less this building, which seemed to employ a kind of New Age sort of white-washed architecture and stainless concrete. The windows were either very well-hidden along the surface of the structure, or they simply did not exist. It seemed like just a plain white slab among more conventional buildings, and it stood out easily as a result. The only break in the clean whiteness of the building front was the logo, in bright red, _SRL _at about five stories up. This was not the specific place they were looking for.

But Derek was doing his best not to look at it. You never knew who was watching. So instead of watching the place, he shot the shit with Sarah.

"It's way too quiet here," Sarah said, almost defensively. "I've been in a lot of quiet places, but the big city's... well, it's big. And loud. Big enough to lose yourself in, loud enough so that no one can hear you."

Man, but she always had a thing for poetry. She did a lot of thinking, Derek knew. Philosophizing, that kind of shit. He turned his head round the expansive street twice, liking the feeling of crisp, barely polluted air against his face. His whole_ body_ liked that feeling, especially after having been cooped up in a plane for several hours and then a taxi cab for several hours after even that. "All I'm saying is that it's nice. There's only a few places in Los Angeles that look like this, and _this_ is a whole city."

Sarah chuckled as they passed a group of slick looking businessmen. "I never took you for the nature loving type, Reese."

"There's a lot of stuff you don't take me for, Sarah."

She nodded matter-of-factly, and the humor dropped straight out of her voice. "You're right. You're this big mystery to me."

They looked at one another for about a split second. You couldn't say that Derek Reese and Sarah Connor weren't cool customers; you'd be dead wrong, and probably ACTUALLY dead, for that matter... but that one pause between them contained enough unspoken questions to make their steely expressions waver, their brains wander into uncharted territories. Christ, there was so much she probably wanted --needed-- to know about him, and he just hadn't said a word yet. About his past, the things he'd done, and most importantly, what he knew. How long would she tolerate this? Would she do it now? Ask him now? Interrogate him?

Derek recovered first; "We gonna start swapping stories now? Telling each other our secret loves and desires, Sarah?" He grinned.

She rolled her eyes, the serious front crumbling, and along with it, any chance of serious discussion. She was probably relieved as hell. "Right now I just want to go to sleep."

"Good enough for me."

They passed the Sacremento Robotics Laboratory building without even turning to see what was inside the glass doors to the lobby. As soon as they'd passed its length they made a bee-line across the street toward the darkened office building that stood parallel to the SRL facility. A dull looking sign hung over the entrance to the building, evidently identifying the corporation owning it as "Infinitum Corp." Judging by the stark disparity and utilitarian structure of this building and the immaculate cleanliness of the Robotics Laboratory across the street, it wasn't difficult to tell who was doing better financially. When they reached the grassy island in the middle of the road, Derek and Sarah both took a moment to give the building a once-over.

It was roughly the same amount of stories as the SRL building, and the rows of windows that ran down it were mostly dark, with a few exceptions here and there. The important thing was that there _were_ windows, a lot of them, and they all faced toward the SRL facility. Derek and Sarah looked at each other and nodded. And thus it was decided that Infinitum Corp would play host to the two fugitives staking out and seeking to annihilate its primary competitor.

They walked the rest of the way across the street and Derek gave the door handle a slight tug. As he did so, he smirked as he noted a puny lock-and-chain setup restricting access.

"I'll keep watch," Derek murmured.

Sarah said nothing and started to work on the tiny Master padlock with her picks. Meanwhile, Derek gave the surrounding area a quick appraisal; some pedestrians a little further down, backs turned. Very little car traffic. His eyes trailed up to the street lamp nearby, searching for a camera. There was nothing, though. If Sarah worked quickly they'd be-

_Click._ Sarah tugged on the padlock and it came open smoothly. She dragged half the chains off one of the door handles and pulled it open slightly, poking her head forward to listen in for an alarm. None sounded, or none could be heard, at least. Derek was grinning like a smug prick, but he had every reason to; Infinitum Corp sure wasn't big on the idea that people would want to break-and-enter. And given the fact that the building they employed looked like it'd seen better days, Derek supposed he couldn't blame them for feeling that way. Made it easier on _them_, anyhow, and that was all that mattered.

"I doubt they'd care," he said when he noticed Sarah staring apprehensively at the dangling chain as they walked inside. "Or at least that they'd investigate much."

"I don't want to make much of a footprint here," she said musingly, her eyes glinting as they swept the room.

The lobby was predictably small, though with a few of the obvious requirements; two concrete pillars, some flowers off to the side (withering, it appeared), an elevator terminal, and a bland looking reception desk. A camera hummed loudly right above the door. It stopped humming loudly when Sarah plucked two wires out from its base.

With that done, Derek walked over to the reception desk and helped himself to the computer monitor that stood on top of it. He stuffed the admittedly bulky contraption into his duffel bag and tested the maneuverability of the bag for a moment. Still pretty good, although you'd have to be an idiot not to notice the computer inside. Lucky that he wouldn't be carrying it for long, then.

"No footprints," Sarah said, grabbing the backside of the monitor as Derek's hands danced around it, plucking out wires, "Means no _theft._"

Derek hefted the duffel bag and started over for the elevators. Sarah pulled on his coat sleeve, shaking her head. Derek sighed. "Look, some rent-a-cop comes over and sees there's been a break-in, right? That's a pretty big footprint already."

"Then how about we agree not to expand it any further, Derek."

"Ah _ha_, but it's getting smaller as we speak. Don't you think they wouldn't look very far for evidence of a crime if they just think it's the computer that's missing?" He smirked and gently pulled her hands away from him. She smacked said hand away and let go herself.

She couldn't keep a smirk from appearing, though, for all that hostility. "Clever. Cleverer than I took you for, Reese."

"Yeah, I'm _all_ surprises tonight."

The elevator doors opened as soon as Sarah touched the call button. With a satisfied "huh" from the both of them they stepped on. Long elevator waits were pretty high up on _both_ their least favorite things, especially after the whole mess at Checkers hotel a few days ago, so having the thing appear so quickly was a pleasant surprise. Hitting the button marked "10," Derek gave the interior a brief once-over for cameras. No sign of one, but that was hardly a sure-thing. With hope any security guys around a bank of monitors would be too busy watching TV or reading to pay attention to a couple of elevator cams.

There was a brief jolt as the elevator started up and began to ascend.

"So what's the plan?" Derek asked.

"We check the tenth floor, see how good it is for sheltering. If it's disused --and that wouldn't surprise me with this building--, great. If not, we make it disused."

"How the hell do we engineer something like that?"

Sarah frowned. "Still trying to work that out."

Derek deflected a groan from escaping him; the woman didn't walk on water. He had to keep reminding himself of that, but she didn't. And she wouldn't. "Good enough. We should see where the security rooms are. A map would be great."

"I think we're getting jobs here," Sarah said grimly. "Janitors, I think. Something low-key. We'll need uniforms. We'll need to look like we belong," she gave Derek a severe look, "Which is something you're gonna have to work on."

"I can be subtle," Derek said.

"No," she returned, smirking with a mixture of nastiness and (maybe) good humor, "You can't."

The elevator halted at the tenth floor. A little electronic message on the control panel lit up, saying that they'd wanna take the stairs if they wanted to reach the roof. Doors opened, Derek and Sarah stepped out, pistols held at the ready; rather an unnecessary gesture, as, even if there _were_ threats up here, neither of them would be able to see it, the darkness on this floor was so absolute.

"Can't see shit," said Derek.

She jerked her head backwards. "The elevator."

They backed into the still-waiting lift. The doors shut once more as Sarah went into her duffel bag and extracted a slender, black flashlight. White lettering along the side of it declared HALOGEN LIGHT. She gave it a firm shake with her fist a few times and turned it on as Derek hit the door button again. They stepped out once more. Derek blinked as the illumination from the flashlight pierced through most, if not all of the darkness on Sarah's side of things.

A large room was revealed just past the elevator hall to the right, which itself seemed to link to, on the left, another similarly sized room, as if they'd been made from the same mold. It was all a boiler-plate cubicle farm; desk monitors dark and sitting idly, file cabinets lining every conceivable wall, whether plastic or plaster, and motivational posters tacked onto the walls which weren't covered with cabinets. A row of man-sized windows to the back of the room completed the generic office-corporate image.

"Check those cabinets," Sarah said, pointing at one of the groups. She kept the flashlight steady as Derek walked over and pulled one of the drawers free. He placed his hand inside and felt around... nothing but dust bunnies and paperclips. He grunted and moved on to the next one, Sarah's flashlight following him as he went. The next three cabinets were similarly bare, and he even checked all the drawers on the last one just to be sure.

"What are we looking for?" he asked.

"Evidence that people have been up here in the last decade."

"Let's check the computers."

They didn't turn out to be much to write home about. Out of the four they checked only one managed to turn on. It briefly revealed a Windows 98 loading screen, which blinked away along with the computer itself, it seemed, in short order. Derek turned to Sarah.

"Seems pretty friggin' disused to me. Are we sure the whole building isn't condemned?"

"This is Sacremento," Sarah said, as if that were answer enough. "There's got to be a use for this place." She turned the flashlight back towards the elevators, "Let's check the other side."

Unlike the first half of the tenth floor, the second _did_ appear to have a use; mass storage. The cubicles still existed, but the desks inside had been torn out and commodities like office paper, old printers, and various labeled boxes sat within instead. It was also a lot dustier in this half, which implied a reasonable amount of foot traffic; the other side was like a tomb, all dry and sterile.

"Home sweet home," Sarah said.

"We're gonna have to stay quiet during the day."

"We won't be here during the day, with hope."

"We're gonna have to secure another way inside, then. Can't leave that lock-and-chain dangling every night."

"That won't be too hard."

"We're gonna have to-"

Sarah gave her brother-in-law a vile look; "It'll all get done, Derek, in due time."

"In how long? We can't stay here forever." They were back in the other half of the tenth floor by now, sitting near the windows. The Sacremento skyline, albeit slight in comparison to Los Angeles, still had a nice glow to it. The SRL facility loomed directly ahead. Derek stared at it for a moment before turning back to Sarah. _Psychopaths_ _ahead, Derek. Traitors. That's all that's in there. _He wanted them dealt with as soon as possible.

"_Forever_ in your terms is... what, a week? Less, maybe? Thought you soldiers were patient," Sarah said.

"We are, but we also know when to be quick. I say, starting tomorrow, we get a list of names from John, get inside that place, kill those names, and then we go home." He made a gun-gesture with his right hand, "cocked" it toward the SRL building, and drew it back upward.

Sarah shook her head, for all the world as if she were chastising an errant six year old. "Names of _who_?"

"The leaders, executive types. They're the ones most likely to be involved in a conspiracy."

"Or they can be hapless suits," Sarah said sensibly.

Derek shrugged. "Even if they are, taking them out will fuck up the corporation beyond repair and hurt the cult in the process."

"No. I don't think so, Derek. I'm not gonna act like a petty murderer based on suspicion alone. Those that we're sure of, fine, they have it coming to them anyway. But if there's doubt..."

"We've seen what these bastards are capable of!" Derek said, "Heard from that psycho Forsythe, from John and his Russian mobster guy, and they tried to kill _your_ son, too. If that doesn't clear all of em' _all_ for a bullet right between the eyes, I don't know what does!"

"An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind," Sarah said. "Gandhi, by the way."

"Who was that again?"

"Forget it, it means we're not here for revenge, we're on a mission. And what are if nothing else on missions, Derek?"

"Efficient," he said at once. He started to say "and quick" as Sarah overran him;

"That's right, Derek, efficient. _Not_ barbaric, _not_ indiscriminate. We're efficient."

He leaned at her. "We don't have time to act all moralistic when billions of lives are at stake. We should liquidate everyone who works there."

And she leaned toward _him_, their noses sitting just inches apart as they stared at one another in their argument over doctrine. "Real fuckin' easy, Reese, and furthermore? I don't fucking think so. You hear me? I really don't. The ones that we _do_ find out about may as well have an express ticket to six-feet-underville. Bystanders are _not_ free game."

Derek raised his hands in frustration. "Fine, take forever, then? That what you're saying?"

"Take as long as we need." She leaned back and gave him a good, lengthy stare. "Are you in a rush, perhaps?"

Derek shifted uncomfortably, staring out at the SRL building. "I wanna get back home before anything happens, to be perfectly honest."

"Cameron's there. I trust her."

"Do you trust _him_?"

_Screeeeech. _Her head swiveled toward him, eyes locking on like a pair of cruise missiles seeking a target.Bringing up John around her in a negative light was always bound to touch off a firestorm of arguing and, probably, outright violence. "What's that supposed to mean, Reese?"

"I dunno," Derek admitted, waving his hand.

She tilted her head, scooting closer to him. Raising her hands to grip his shoulder. She wasn't touching him, wasn't getting closer in the spirit of kinship or making him understand; it was to allow her easier access to his throat. "Well, you can only mean two things by that, Derek, and here's what they are: you're asking if I trust him with his life, or trust him not to _take_ his life?"

Jesus, but she could be witheringly blunt when she wanted it. "I said I don't know, Sarah," said Derek.

"Answer the fucking question. You've been alluding to that all day and I wanna hear you _say_ it."

"Alright, the latter."

She stared at him for a moment, eyes slightly wide, her green irises shining suddenly. "Really?"

"Yeah. Really. I thought that was what you wanted to hear?"

She shook her head. "You're an idiot, Reese..."

"Guilty as charged, but what's wrong?"

"I... I don't know," she said, her gaze softening substantially. Her tensed up body slackened and she leaned back against the glass pane of a window. "I want to tell you you're wrong, but..." She sighed. "I talked to him earlier... while you were asleep, he... sounded calmer. But..."

"But you're still not sure?"

She shook her head dismissively. "He's... just in a rut right now. He's a kid. He'll grow through it. I don't think he'd consider suicide an option. Or running away. He's stronger than that."

"He's got a lot of doubt in him, Sarah. A _lot._"

"No kidding. When... I was pregnant with him, I had a lot of silly... grand thoughts about what a great leader he'd be, and that was still with me for a long time until recently. John was just gonna be twelve when Judgment Day arrived in 1997, so he'd have no time to think about whether he really wanted it or not when his mind grew older... Which meant I never really gave it that much thought myself. Now, though... it's all changed. Now that he's had time to think about it... I'm afraid he'll just reject all of this out of hand. Maybe not now... maybe never, but..."

"But we can't be too careful."

"No, we can't."

"I think we need to watch him closely."

"I think you're right. I think _I_ need to watch him closely."

That was a low blow, but Derek allowed it. No point in calling her on that. Instead of calling her on that, he nodded in unison with her, and they both sighed, as though releasing tension. Derek looked at his sister-in-law, "Do you feel bad at all?"

She smiled sadly. "What, that I've put my own son in a prison he can't escape from right from the day he was born? I feel bad about that every day, Reese. I suppose you can't blame him for wanting to doubt himself. I trust him, though. I trust that he'll make it."

Derek yawned. "Well, now that we've gotten horribly off track, why don't we save strategy for tomorrow? Early tomorrow?"

"Early tomorrow," Sarah compromised. "I think you're right, we should get back as soon as possible. But..."

"Save it..." Derek said. "Argue tomorrow, sleep now. Ok?"

"Right. Don't forget about that rifle store we spotted on the way in from Mather Field."

"Yep. And you'll scout the place out."

"If I'm awake enough to do it, sure."

They both chuckled, but for Sarah it felt nearly forced. She sounded like she had the world on her shoulders all over again. In some ways, that was true. They bade each other good night and moved off. Derek grunted as he laid down in the middle of a cubicle, using his duffel bag as a pillow. He dulled out Sarah's fussiness in the cubicle opposite his and started to drift off into sleep. As he did so, he absently remedied his last thought: she _always_ sounded like she had the world on her shoulders.

--

"I'm gonna put on some music, ok?"

John opened his eyes. Looked around the interior of the car in dull surprise, for all the world as if he didn't realize he'd been inside of it for a half hour now. Christ, sometimes he wished he could move all the time, see different places and experience something new every minute of every hour. He felt that way when he wasn't occupying several different vehicles in the ten minutes time, like a SWAT van and a gardeners truck, whilst being chased by a helicopter being piloted by a liquid metal assassin from the future. He felt that way when, say, he wasn't sneaking into a warehouse, getting trapped in a truck almost immediately afterward, and then facing subsequent entombment in a fallout shelter with the only company being a man who wasn't a man named Carter.

So _sometimes _he liked seeing tons of different things. But when things were stressful, he went against that, wanting to experience just... sameness for a while. So in the end he wasn't sure _what_ he liked better, to be honest. Right now he felt a distinct sense of displacement, opening his eyes every few minutes and seeing a whole different part of L.A. each time. Different colors, different towering skyscrapers, different people... it confused him, even as he saw the need for it. He'd told the guy in the driver's seat to drive wherever he liked, and that was what he was doing. So right now was one of those times where he was conflicted. He wanted to see different things, cause that signified a lack of Cameron and a sense of mobility, but he also wanted to stay put, where he could gather his thoughts and let himself react properly to what had happened tonight.

And right now he also felt like he was examining this shit way too much. It was better than fixating on the dual suicide he'd witnessed, at least.

"Go ahead," John murmured. The driver (another refugee, like John, from Bryant's disastrous party. He also happened to look just like John, though with subtle differences) nodded and started to fiddle around with the radio knob. Staccato voices and tunes filled the interior of the car, shifting and changing like an indecisive dude who was about to leap off a bridge, contemplating whether-

Whoa, _hey._ No. Not good imagery, Johnny. Christ, but his mind felt so listless from the mixture of alcohol and tiredness within him. And he was pretty fucking unstable enough as it was, so random, mostly unpleasant thoughts kept infiltrating, going past his brain's flimsy defenses and penetrating exactly where he felt the most sensitive. Occasionally he felt like he'd die of regret, watching those two people kill themselves, essentially, over him. And sometimes he just wanted to sleep when he felt like he didn't have the energy to feel sorry about it. Like, at all.

Right now he felt mostly tired. With some slight pains deep in his stomach, a result of emotional baggage, obviously, but-

And right now, John reflected, he was a guy who found it insanely difficult to find out exactly where he stood on much of anything. Just stop thinking.

The driver's hand began to linger slightly as it turned between stations, him listening for whatever caught his ear. It jittered occasionally, causing the station to change inadvertently; he was pretty nervous. Not difficult to blame him, though, after being menaced with a gun courtesy of John and after nearly being shot in the head, courtesy of Cameron Phillips. Maybe it was the alcohol in him, but as far as near-death experiences went he seemed like a fairly good customer; he hid his nervousness well, his hand being the only thing that betrayed him. His eyes kept trailing up to the bullet hole in the ceiling of the vehicle. And then, invariably, they would trail over to John. But mostly he kept his eyes on the road, and his stance easy-going. Just waiting to explode, in other words. Waiting as the knowledge of what he'd witnessed tonight fully seeped in, made him _understand._ Then he wouldn't feel so fucking easy-going, would he?

A sort of unconventional --like listening through a radio through a radio, John thought with a smirk-- tune came on. It utilized a lot of acoustics and natural sounds, with a steady tempo. John found it vaguely irritating, cause at times the music was almost ear-gratingly loud, but the driver seemed thrilled.

"Love these two," he said, turning it up. He'd clearly heard this before. John smothered his head back against the seat, trying to dull it out. The driver, who'd made a point early on about being concerned with him _(cause of your gun, _he would always remind John snarkily, referring to the Beretta he had in his backpack) turned his head and said, "This ok with you?"

"I'll live."

"It's a good song, y'know, really good group. They're different, which is nice."

As they spoke a low, sultry, but decidedly morose sounding woman started singing over the radio; _"You can leave me... on the corner where you found me... I'm not for sale anymore."_

John made a non-commital noise. He really didn't care one way or another, and all he was interested in right then was just finding someplace safe to rest.

The song lasted for about a minute, which struck John as an odd running length. The driver was dead silenct throughout, as though taking it all in. When the woman's voice cut out, his hand darted toward the radio and turned it off. He took in a deep, shaky breath, and turned to John, who could just about _feel_ the guys indifferent front collapse from under itself; "Ok. _Any_ time you're ready, man."

John, who'd been expecting an impromptu interrogation session for a while now, shrugged resignedly. Best to just endure the questions, get them out of the way. There'd be no buildup that way... y'know, there'd be no sense of strain.

"It's ok, go ahead," John said.

"Did you kill Bryant and that girl?"

"No." He'd came close to killing Bryant, but that wasn't the same as actually doing it. No, sir.

The driver stared at him, frowning and running a hand over his head. "O-ok. I'm just gonna say it straight; are you sure? I know there were _a lot_ of drugs and shit like that at that place so if, like, it's all in a haze and stuff, just tell me, ok? Just fucking tell me."

"I had a lot of beer. That's it."

"_Dude,_ brother, do _not_ lie to me, please. I... I just wanna know, alright?"

"I didn't kill them. They killed themselves."

The driver held his gaze for a moment before turning back to the road, swiping yet another hand over his forehead, "What the hell were you doing, then?"

John mulled over the question for a moment. It was a pretty good one, all things considered, and it put a sort of clarity on the whole night, in fact. What the hell had he been doing? Excellent question. "Just... messing around with her," he said. "Bryant found out. It got really bad and..." He blinked rapidly and lowered his head a bit. "You saw what happened. Right there, in the fuckin' bodies, you saw what happened, dude."

"Never should have gone," the driver groused, "Bryant was a _fucking_ extra and, y'know, I'm all for keeping touch after doing a show, I'm not some elitist _asshole_, but I-I shouldn't have gone. Shouldn't have acted like I was his goddamned friend when I wasn't. I can be dumb at times."

John smirked. _Not similar just in looks, it seems._ Something about what he'd said, though... jogged John's memory...

Oh, right. He let out a satisfied grunt as he remembered. "Oh, so you're the actor dude he was talking about?"

The driver let out a surprised chuckle. "Yeah. Did he mistake you for me, any chance?"

"Initially."

"And people kept thinking I was you."

They both laughed as if they hadn't been discussing death and mayhem just a few seconds prior. John couldn't keep a stupid, easy sort of grin off his face as he giggled and looked out his window at the passing lights and pedestrians who covered the streets. They all looked like silhouettes, just with the lights shining behind their walking forms, it was impossible to tell anything about them. All black and shiny, almost nothing else. John liked that for some reason. Right now he just felt responsible, felt like _something_ important. There was light shining on him, and he didn't want that. He didn't mind the idea of blending in, looking all black and faceless.

Deep, man. That's deep. Maybe some drugs got smuggled into that beer, eh?

"I'm just glad I never really _knew_ him, y'know," the actor was saying, staying on subject. Quick laughs, but mostly business as far as he was concerned, John was guessing. "I thought... what the hell, right? Why not go? And this... this happens. Blows my mind, and lemme tell you, it takes a _lot_ to blow my fuckin' mind, brother."

"You'll get used to it," John found himself saying.

"Well, I certainly hope not." He smirked and looked over at John. "Why, man, this happen a lot?"

"Too often," John said matter-of-factly. "We in downtown?"

The actor pulled the car around a corner, hands revolving along with the steering wheel. "Yeah, I think so. L.A.'s great for the nightlife if you're in the city itself, I guess. In the suburbs you just get suicides... and crazy bitches with guns... haha... ha..."

"And robots," John added.

"We can include robots if you want. Pirates, too?"

John shrugged. "Why not?"

"Great. Suicidal robots and pirates... ha..." The actor looked borderline hysterical, all things considered. "That's fuckin' great, eh? Just make a joke outta it? As if the cops won't-"

"Calm down, everyone thought you were me." He sighed, acknowledging a simple truth. "They won't be lookin' for you."

The actor shook his head, as if he'd been offended by something. "_Crazy_ fucking shit, man. That was _nuts,_ ok?" He took a deep breath. "Just gimme a minute... I've hardly ever seen anyone fuckin' dead, it's crazy, and here you're..."

John looked at him. "I'm what?"

"You're like a dead fish, man. You got all riled up cause that crazy bitch took a shot at you, but other than that? It's like you don't care!"

John gawked at him. "Really?"

The actor raised an eyebrow, "Uh, _yeah,_ really. I don't wanna antagonize or anything, but those two morons killed themselves cause you wanted to get some with Bryant's whore. Don't you care about that?"

John thought about that for a minute. When it happened he went nearly berserk with regret, but that was natural, like a knee-jerk sort of reaction. The big thing on his mind, bigger than two love-starved teenagers committing suicide, had been getting away from Cameron. He felt bad about it, but... god, it was like watching soldiers just die in the heat of combat. He'd seen... what, more than ten people be killed in the last week? All by violent gunfire? What was this? What was this in comparison? The guilt of causing them to die was no worse than watching Michael bleed all over the place, of shooting mobsters. Was it possible that was no longer sensitive to this? Had he given himself time? Was this a good thing or a bad thing? Christ.

"I dunno," John answered truthfully. "I really don't." Right now he didn't. Like, honestly. Not one bit. But who knew how he'd feel tomorrow?

The actor sighed, sinking slightly into his seat. "But how? I... you know, forget it. I don't care. It's fuckin' over and nobody recognized me. Crazy ass shit." He rubbed his eyes suddenly. "Right now I just wanna sleep."

"I'm hungry," was all John said to that.

The actor grunted. "There's a, uh, place nearby. I think they've got beds and food."

John gave the guy a wary glance, but he was just concentrating on the road. Could he... nah... no way. Christ, Mike had already squicked John out with his barely concealed _lust_ over him. So now he was giving _everyone_ the paranoid glare. Was he honestly that good looking? Seriously now? Gah, it was nothing. Just paranoia. And silly, at that. He didn't know this guy, and this guy didn't know him. It was cool.

Real fucking ironic that he chose to fixate over _this,_ as opposed to what they'd been discussing. Maybe that just confirmed it. Maybe he didn't care.

That thought scared him more than anything else had tonight.

--

They ended up on some boulevard in central downtown, parking amid a mass of cars and glittering storefronts. The actor spared a glance at the top of his car and muttered something John couldn't hear. He was mostly concentrating on getting out of the car himself; his knees felt all shaky, like they'd just topple out from under his own body. Thinking _one, two, step by step,_ he put one foot in front of the other and succeeded in getting out. Sounds of traffic, some close, but most of it far away, greeted him as he stood there on the pavement, waiting for the actor to lead him on. Using his keys to lock the vehicle, the guy jerked his head to the left, and they started walking, his hands in his pockets, John with his hand cradling his throbbing head. And in spite of the pain, John smiled lightly, thinking of all the unexpectedness of this night. Had he wanted to get close to Bryant? Nah, but he did anyway due to a bunch of things. Did he _want_ to talk to this actor fellow after having met him in the kitchen, much less ride around in his car to get away from his Terminator bodyguard? Not really, but that was how it went. Maybe mom would have called that fate. Destiny.

Well, he didn't want to believe in that, cause that sort of thinking implied a certain something about John's future that he wished to avoid. No fate but what _he_ made, eh? She also said that. So he called this night on its unexpectedness, not on destiny. Not on fate. He still had a degree of control.

"Where're we goin'?" John asked. A car passed, blaring really loud hip-hop music, so he had to repeat himself.

"Benjamin's Place," said the actor. "Sort of like a dance club slash bed and breakfast, but it's new. New concept, old architecture, I think. I played here once."

John blinked. "What, you sing?"

The actor peered over his shoulder. "Uh, yeah. Not in public much, though. Usually I just record... and stuff like that." He looked down and smirked. "Trust me, of the recognition I actually get --which isn't a lot, thank god-- most of it's for acting, so I'm not surprised you didn't know."

John, who knew nothing about him whatsoever, said, "Whad'ya sing?"

"Unconventional stuff. I like to experiment. Uh, electronica mostly, with some orchestral undertones." He had to mull through the word "orchestral" twice to actually get it out of his mouth. "And I sing about... whatever's on my mind, I guess."

"I wouldn't mind doing that for a living."

"You sing at all? Been on America Idol? Hehehe."

"I'm not good, if th-..." John rolled his eyes. "Forget it."

The actor raised an eyebrow. "You asked about it, brother."

Did he feel envious? Sort of, yeah. He was afraid of carrying on the conversation, afraid it'd make him feel even more jealous. Here he was trooping about with some free spirit type, and his old life kept trying to catch up with him in some rather unpleasant ways. Now granted, this guy had gotten lucky as all hell, but... man, wouldn't that be awesome? Singing and crap, living on your own? Not think about the words of Sun Tzu every day, or worrying over how you're gonna hack into so-and-so's corporate website? He had trouble visualizing it in his head, being a normal guy like that, with normal stuff going on. But he wouldn't for much longer. Soon that would... that would hopefully be a reality. He had to stop being so cocksure after tonight. Had to work for it.

They kept walking. Sure enough, a little further down the sidewalk a lit-up sign read "Benjamin's Place." Below that, "Karaoke Night Thursday." Prices for a variety of things underneath even that.

"So, uh..."

John looked at the actor expectantly.

"Am I your hostage? I mean, at all. Are we cool?"

John raised his hands. "Dude, we're fine. I just wanted you to drive, I'm not... holding you hostage or anything like that. You can go if you want."

"I just wanted to know is all. If you're in a fix, man, I can set you up with a room here."

That... sounded great, actually. John yawned at the anticipation of that. "Well, thanks, but y'know, you don't have to. I messed your shit up, after all."

The actor shrugged, "No kidding, but... I-I dunno." He waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it, follow me." There was no door, so they just walked right on in. John got his first look at the place through a mesh-wire screen that corralled guests into the waiting area, presumably to pay for entry before going inside. Through that he saw a fairly big dance area, with a bar to the left and a bunch of booths and tables to the far right. The place had an industrial, muted sort of architecture that seemed at odds with its pleasant lighting and woodsy-looking bar area. The tables were mostly plastic and hard wood, with the accompanying seats and chairs plush and comfortable looking. An understated rock beat bleated from the dance floor, which was occupied by only a few people in dark, gothic rags. The whole place was a mess of juxtapositions, at least as far as theme was concerned.

A dark-clothed girl stood off to the side of the entrance, chewing gum and generally looking tired; "Ten dollah's a piece," she said, her voice thick of Boston.

The actor smiled at her. "I was playing here the other night, you don't remember?"

"No," she said bluntly.

The actor grumbled and tore out a twenty, "This cover food and rooms?"

"Naw," she said. "Tawlk to Allison 'bout that."

"Let's go," John interjected.

"I remember Allison," said the actor, almost defensively.

She shrugged. The actor grumbled and motioned John to follow. John offered her a smile as he went past, which earned him a smile in return. It seemed genuine, too, which kind of made him glow. She wasn't bad looking. As they cleared out of the waiting area, John turned and saw a bunch of ancient looking flashbulbs adorning the wall just above the entrance. None of them worked, but they seemed to spell out the words "TECH-NOIR." Probably the old name for this place.

The goth-clothed dancers gave them a couple of looks as they approached the bar, but they seemed pretty much harmless. They were definitely more interested in Kurt Cobain's guttural voice blaring over the loudspeaker than in John.

A fat, wrinkled looking woman was talking on the phone behind the bar. A bunch of bottles of various beers and wines stood behind her on shelves, along with a mirror beyond that. John found himself staring at his reflection. He was all sweaty and it really showed on his off-white bullseye t-shirt. His eyes had a harrowed, exquisitely tired look to them. John turned his eyes away as he hopped up on a stool. He never realized how shitty he looked tonight until now.

"I've got no one else, Jesse," the lady was saying, "It'd kill me if you just walk out..." she paused to listen, her face crinkling with frustration. "Jesse-" She looked at the phone suddenly and slammed it back down into the receiver, muttering. She turned and looked at the two guys sitting at her bar. "What?" Eyes trailed briefly at the actor. "I recognize you. Tom, right? What'cha doin' back here?"

"Nothin' much," the actor said after a moment's thought. "Is it alright if I spend the night here? You've got rooms, right?"

"They ain't cheap, hon. How many you lookin' for?"

"Two," John said at once.

The actor looked at him and nodded, "Two would be good."

John did his best to keep himself from sighing in relief.

The bartender glanced at John, then back to the actor. Then back again. Then she shook her head, all dazed-like. "They aren't that great, it's mostly a gimmick, boys. Bed n' breakfast, you know? Most people come in for the dancing and the breakfast."

"I don't give a shit," said John. "They can't be that bad."

"Jesse ain't dusted them at all in the past week and he's walkin' out on me. I don't want some kids sayin' how bad my service is, no offense."

"Are you refusing us?" John asked.

She sighed.

"It's a simple question."

"I'm just sayin'-"

"How much?"

"Do you mind?" the actor said suddenly, glaring at John.

The bartender was smirking, though. She gave John another look and started to nod, almost to herself. John barely noticed; he had no patience after all that had happened tonight, all the stupidities and the fucking problems... he just wanted to get shit done now. Any other time and he'd be either suave if he didn't feel all depressed and shit like he did this week or fumbling with his words if he _was_ all depressed, like he had been. Now, though? He didn't care. He didn't feel self-conscious right now, just didn't care. It was the tired sort of punchiness you'd get after a hard day. _Ad infinitum, _John thought.

"Twenty bucks, room's is ten each," the barkeep said, smirk still adorning her wide, sickly lips.

The actor gawked for a moment. "Well, that's a deal. Can we get some food, too?"

The barkeep shrugged. "Not much in. I can do sandwiches and any of the drinks you see 'ere."

John asked for a turkey sandwich. The actor claimed he wasn't hungry and instead decided to add to his blood-alcohol level with yet another wine. Both items came within a minute, the bartender going into a tiny refrigerator and gathering a tinfoil wrapped turkey sandwich. She selected the asked-for wine from the shelf and doled the food out. Finally, she bent down under the counter and shortly reappeared with two keys.

"Don't blame me if they ain't much to your liking. Hope you ain't asthmatic, either of ya." She looked at John. "And you, kid..."

John stopped unwrapping his sandwich for a moment to look at her.

"Talk to me in the mornin' if ya don't mind."

"About?" What the hell was _her_ angle?

"Well, it depends, y'see. Just c'mere in the mornin'. Ain't nothin' bad, I assure ya."

She turned around and walked further down the bar counter, going over to accommodate the group of dancers who'd sat down. John watched her for a bit, frowning between the big bites he chomped out of the sandwich. The hell could she want, anyway? Goddamn...

"You don't trust people much, do you?" said the actor. He was drinking straight from the bottle.

John sighed. "Funny, I've been told I trust people _too_ much."

"Really," the actor said musingly. "Cause you were all antsy and shit when I talked to you before, and then... I dunno, sorry."

"I was drunk."

"You still are?"

"I feel sober, actually," John said. "My head m-mad hurts, though."

"Well, _be_ that as it may, I don't know what to make of you... uh... John, right?"

"John."

The actor snapped his free hand. "Knew it. Just saying, you confuse the hell outta me. What's your deal?"

"I'm in something of a transitional stage," John frowned and took another bite. He felt like he was having difficulty controlling how his face looked, for some odd reason. "I told you this at the party, my life sucks. I'm trying to get outta that."

"I remember. That doesn't mean you should get drunk off your ass just cause you wanna fit in with a bunch of high school dickfaces. I mean... look at the results." He took a pull from his wine and grunted. "As far as transitional periods go, brother, you are failing miserably."

"I think _you're_ drunk, ''brother.'"

The actor shook his head in dull wonderment, "You are _damn_ clever for a teenager, you know that? But nah, I'm just... honest. I guess. I'm usually polite, but I think I'm entitled to criticize the dude who fucked my shit up. So what was so bad about your old stuff?"

"I..." John gulped and looked away. "It just sucked."

"You running away?"

He nodded. "Yeah, actually."

"Why? My life's sucked at times, that didn't mean I... y'know, ran away."

"You're a singer and an actor. I'd call that a fucking cushy life style, man."

"Yeah, but I'm not Dave Matthews or George Clooney, either. I'm not, y'know, _tremendously_ successful at either of those things. A lot of it's sucked, in fact. But I deal with it. So what's _your_ beef?"

John cradled his chin with his right hand, resting it on the counter. Man, how late was it, anyway? "My..." He took a bite from the sandwich, allowing him time to gather his thoughts. The actor waited patiently. John gulped down and stared at the counter as he talked. "My mom has... a serious messiah complex. You know what that means?"

"Delusions of how great you are," the actor said. "I've been accused of it myself." He chuckled.

John didn't. "Yeah, except it's not _her_. It's me. _I'm_ the messiah. She's got all these... high expectations for me, and for a while I was all into that, cause I was young. She makes a lot of big predictions about me, and I've seen some shit that's proved that she's right... but... a-anyway, I'm not young and stupid anymore. I know bullshit when I see it, and I knew I couldn't satisfy what she wanted... so I left."

The actor was silent for a moment, processing this. He'd probably been expecting some sort of diva shit, like, y'know, from most teenagers on the planet. And this wasn't even the whole truth! "You try talking to her about it, brother?"

"A bunch of times, but... she never listens. And everyone else in my... uh, my house believed her, y'know. I was the only one who... who didn't."

"They all idolized you or something?"

John was quick to shake his head, "No, they... idolized what I'd be, not what I am right now. Every word out of them was some warning or... some, some criticism."

"How could they know what you'd be?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. I'm really tired."

"Yeah, I'm beat as all hell. To be continued, huh? Guess you don't wanna talk about this anymore."

John nodded eagerly. "I can dig it. Thanks for y'know, getting me outta there and all."

The actor chortled. "Didn't have much of a choice, but no problem. You alright?"

"Just need some shut eye, I guess."

"Anything else?"

John had difficulty placing his tone. He shifted uncomfortably. "Uh. No."

The actor grunted and turned toward Allison, who was cleaning a few mugs down the by the other patrons. "Hey, Allison! Where're those rooms you talked about?"

The bartender pointed past the dance floor and toward the entrance to a hallway. "They're nothin' fancy!" she called.

The actor rolled his eyes. "C'mon."

"You go on. I think another sandwich is calling my name."

He smirked. "Alrighty then. Christ, what a day." He rubbed his forehead and wandered off towards the inn portion of the dance club. John watched him until he disappeared behind the corner, and then drew in a long, loud breath. In truth, he felt absolutely ready to collapse, but he wanted a bit of time to himself. And honestly? He didn't wanna go to the rooms with the guy, cause as far as John was concerned the verdict was still out over whether the dude was a nancy or something like that. He knew how "artists" usually were. Some of the shit he'd said rubbed John the wrong way. Or he was just being paranoid. Hardly mattered, anyway. What John really wanted was time to himself.

Because no matter his orientation, the actor had gotten John thinking, both about today and his situation in general. "What a day" was too soft a descriptor for all this. It was all a bit too much for John to comprehend at once. He'd departed from his destiny today. Diverged, left, adios. He'd left expecting a world of difference, of hardship, but ultimately just satisfaction in the end. The satisfaction of having parents who loved him for who he was, not what he'd be. Of going to school normally, and not simply as a ruse to give him the _impression_ of normalcy. He'd worry about grades for real. He'd worry about getting into a good college when he was older. He'd have an understated, unassuming life. He wanted_ that_ sort of satisfaction in life. But had he worked for it yet?

No, he'd been stupid. He got lazy right off the bat. He decided to celebrate with a night of decadence and stupidity. With fucking near-disastrous results, no less. No matter how many complex ways you break it apart and try to understand what had gone on, that was what it boiled down to. He got stupid and made the wrong choice. No more. No fuckin' more. In fact, he'd be better off putting this night outta his memory, sling it alongside the other horrors of this week. Everything he wanted to forget initially could go into this night too. Today (it had to be past twelve by now) was the _actual_ start, but he couldn't get foolishly optimistic, either. He had to be smart. Had to be self-conscious. That was all there was to it.

He got up and called over to the barkeep, "I'll talk with you tomorrow, Allison."

The bartender gave him a look and nodded. John started off toward the hallway she'd pointed to earlier. See? Easy. Just plan in steps. That was step one. And all you have to do, as Sarah had told him, was put one foot in front of the other. Step one, step two, step three. All works out in the end if you go methodically.

Step one, step two all the way to sleep.


	6. The Bartender

**Away**

Chapter Six: The Bartender

Disclaimer: Special thanks to CIsaac and CamelotGirl for beta reading.

Although he felt ready to fall asleep as soon as he hit the bed, John just couldn't do it. He laid there for a few minutes, eyes closed, hands clasped and held tightly against his head. Blackness swirled and tumbled out in front of him, the occasional dark, murky color materializing in front of his blind eyes, either shaped like something utterly nightmarish or lacking shape entirely, all encompassing, filling his vision. He felt ready to submit himself to unconscious -- he wanted it desperately, to dream, think of nothing, to wake up in the morning and just lay there, knowing he'd come through the night and that it was the start of a brilliant new day. He wanted that, yearned for it so badly, and it just didn't want to come. No matter how hard he worked to purge his mind, to allow nothing through but tire and weariness, sleep wouldn't rise up to free him. And like a sly fox, thoughts, memories just kept coming through, dodging past his defenses. Or... he let them in, he wasn't entirely sure.

There was him kissing Cameron on the cheek, and he loved the feeling of it, of being a part of that relationship with her. It had filled him, made him glow inside. It made him want to cry in joy, and at the ultimate loss of it all to his own personal mission. To know he was learning along with Cameron of these things, this wonder, of appreciation, love, this friendship they'd shared, to learn it together with her was amazing... it was supernatural. So that was a pretty good memory as far as John was concerned.

Not all of it was pleasant, though. Cameron seemed to transform right before his eyes, becoming Bryant's girlfriend. And he felt nothing as he kissed her now, only raw, unadulterated lust. Meaningless, but insanely powerful, overwhelming. He felt his heart thump like a jackhammer in his chest as he thought about the moments he'd spent with her... before it all came crashing down. How she'd moved on him, it had felt... indescribable. And he hadn't even gotten a full taste, which... which along with what eventually happened, left a bittersweet feeling to grow in him. Mostly bitter. If he took what he'd done with her... and, in his mind, made her Cameron... my, lookit that? Now _that_ would be indescribable.

See, _this_ was what was keeping him from sleeping. Thinking and remembering like this, fixating and trying to focus on those memories, afraid he'd lose them. For some it was because he wanted to hold them forever in his mind, just stay as he was and remember without break. And for other memories, well, they were like train wrecks. You were just so interested in them, their morbid brand of pleasure and fascination that you couldn't take your eyes off them.

Sleep just wouldn't come. Moving around, getting more comfortable wouldn't help. Trying to isolate his mind from his physical body just invited more thoughts inside. Rebellion. He only waited... only hoped pure exhaustion would let him go, overwhelm him... so... overwhelming...

He blinked and let his eyes flicker and open. He moved his hands up and folded them behind his head as he stared at the darkened room. Like Allison the bartender had told him, it wasn't much to speak of. Really dusty, not very roomy. It looked like it had once been a lounge, remodeled at the whim of one of the buildings owners to be a living area. There was a basic wooden desk, but it didn't look very sturdy. And a chair, also unsteady. John hadn't bothered with those. The bed was what he'd been after, and a faint cloud of dust had been thrown up into the air as he collapsed on top of it. It gave him a few coughs, but nothing much beyond that. A bunch of armoires and tables littered the room, most of which were in a pile at the corner, near the door. A light bulb hung from the ceiling, and it was off.

Bah, he wouldn't get to sleep like this. A quick walk would do him some good. He pushed the coverings off him and pulled himself up off the bed, feeling a few good-natured kinks in his bones catch and crack. He groaned softly and went straight for the door. This club looked like it had an alright size. Maybe he could find something interesting and then go back to sleep. Walk around with his hands in his pocket, see some stuff, gradually get tired until he felt like dropping. Why not?

He reached the dance floor again, pausing only to check the door handle on the actor's room. It turned out to be locked up tight. Oh well. Allison also turned out to not be working this late; it was some guy in a white suit, polishing glasses methodically like he didn't have any other cares in the world but polishing. Oh, and there were a couple of guys in black motorcycle jackets playing pool in the middle of the dance area. Other than that, place was just about empty.

John walked over to the bar. The bartender gave a him a warm smile and leaned over. He had an angularly shaped face; everything seemed straight about it, very little curving. Eyes were brown, and he had a rather goofy looking black mullet topping it all off. He wore a thin long-sleeved white shirt with a black tie.

"Get'cha somethin', kid?" he said, his tone easy-going, but mostly all business. Had a job to do, after all. His hands dipped down under the counter and retrieved a glass, which he promptly started to polish off.

"Uh, nothin'," John replied, looking around. "Where'd Allison go?"

The bartender cocked an eyebrow. "Allison don't work here. Which Allison?"

"Old lady who works here." John coughed again, this time from the smoke machine these people had going. He couldn't tell where it was all coming from.

"Not my shift, I can tell ya that much. Need a drink?"

"I'm fifteen."

The bartender smirked, "Ain't never stopped people before."

"I'm not thirsty, just... y'know, tooling around, man," John said.

"Guess so. Busy night, eh?"

John hopped on a stool. Maybe some conversation would tucker him out. "You think so?"

"Hell _yeah,_ man. It's always busy here."

John smiled, as though considering a crazy person from a good distance away, "I saw, like, four people here earlier, not including me and the other guy. And the bikers, I guess."

"Oh, it's always busy here." As though to punctuate this, a dancing couple accidently bounced into John's back, which got a gale of laughter out of both the idiots. John growled and turned to watch them melt back into the crowd of dancers. Meanwhile, the bartender went on, "Music blarin', smoke machine goin', people dancin' all over the place. Love it, man. I met my girlfriend here once, long time ago by now."

_"No control... walk right in too close to feeel the pa-a-a-ain! I'm lost in you..."_

John's smile got a bit softer; maybe he wasn't so crazy after all. He was certainly fun to talk with. "That's awesome. Who was she?"

"_Is_ she, man. _Is_ she. Her name's Allison."

"Huh." How long ago was "long time ago," anyway? This guy looked no older than the actor dude.

_"Now you strike the match and light the fla-a-a-ame!"_

"Real beautiful. Got a good business sense, too. She says her dad's gonna help me 'n her own this place one day if we can get into negotiations with the owner."

_"My heart's abla-a-aaze!"_

There was a growing red splotch on the bartender's lower left portion of his chest. Right portion, from where John was looking. He couldn't take his eyes off of it, and he realized that it'd been there this whole time.

"Yeah," John said. Wasn't that curious, huh? "What're you gonna call it?"

The guy smirked and chuckled. "Stupid name, but it's her idea. Name's it after her father, Benjamin. So it'd be go Tech-Noir to Benjamin's Place, I reckon."

The bartender leaned over the counter and pointed the top half of a glass at John's chest; "You look mighty familiar, by the way. Look almost like this one guy who's been skulking about here. You could pass for his son, reckon."

_"You've got me burnin'!"_

John ignored him and stared at the splotch on his chest; it looked a lot like blood. Like a gunshot wound, almost. The barkeep didn't even seem to notice it.

"Uh, d-dude, you got something there-"

_"You've got me burnin'!"_

"Oh, on the shirt?"

John nodded.

The guy looked down and... and his eyes rolled up into his head. He jerked back as if he'd been shot and he collapsed against the mirror, blood shooting out onto it. John cried out in terror, falling back off the end of the stool.

_"You've got me burnin' in the thiiiiird degreeeeee!"_

_Holy shit! Holy FUCKING shit! _

For a few seconds he laid there, sprawled on the dance floor and trembling. He felt rooted to the ground... but he had to get up. If the guy had been shot, then... maybe someone was trying to get John, too. Maybe it was an accident. He picked himself up and stared slack-jawed at the little bit of space the bartender had been working in, polishing his glasses, providing comfort and a sense of professional presence to the establishment. There was nothing there now. Blood had soaked the mirror and was slowly trickling down its length. In the reddened reflection he could see a bunch of terrified patrons... and... and most of them looked angry, actually. Not even terrified. No, none of them were scared. Angry. They were _all_ scowling at him and... their arms were held out rigidly. Their hands were folded up into their palms, aside from their index fingers, which were stiff and pointing. At _him. _

He couldn't turn around. He felt paralyzed. He just watched the reflection, bloody and mired with gore, slipping down onto the upholstery and looking absolutely, stomach churningly macabre. The people, whether man or woman, were all wearing an amalgam of 80s clothing, stark white, black, red, blue, all tight-fitting and unconventional, their hair in mullets or hanging down loosely. And... and as he watched them... as they pointed at him through the mirror's reflection, he could see them crumbling. Decaying. It was like they were being put through an oven. Their skulls grinned out at him, and they still pointed. Their clothes burned off to reveal skeletal forms underneath it all, like a nice, gilded surface breaking way and collapsing. Their bodies suddenly swayed as though in a storm. A howling noise engulfed the room, and he could feel the wind blowing savagely, threatening to take him along with it, heedless of his weight. But they seemed unconcerned. They still pointed... in all their grotesqueness. They wouldn't stop.

_Oh god._

John turned around.

And there was nobody there. The crowd was gone, it was only a few biker dudes playing pool. John stared at them, wide-eyed, his whole body shaking apoplectically. There was no one. Ha. He... there was no one. He turned around again. The bartender smirked at him. That blood was still on his chest.

John decided not to mention it again. What had they been blaming him for? Jesus Christ...

He sat down again. "Uh. A beer."

The bartender smirked. "You sure, buddy?"

"Y-yeah. Need to calm m-my nerves."

The bartender smirked. "You think _he'd_ want you to do that?"

John turned around in his seat.

A large, probably Austrian man glared at him from across the room. His body seemed chiseled by the Gods, every facet of it looked as though it'd been carved from fine diamonds. It exuded raw, limitless power, and you could tell that just by looking at him, you _knew_ it was nothing less than the epitome of a man, the _ubermensch _practically, the man wasn't handsome or nice looking, he was just there and he was just powerful. You could tell right by looking at his body, because he wasn't wearing any clothing. Not a stitch.

John stared at him. "Y... you!"

The man advanced, his strides long and certain. The bikers chortled as he passed. The bartender guffawed and said, "Nice night for a walk, eh?"

He stopped in front of John and stared directly at him, his eyes running across the measure of him. And then they settled directly upon John's.

"Your clothes," the man said. "Give them to me."

John touched him on the shoulder, almost placating, pleadingly. "D-dude, it's me! John! I'm John!"

The man stared down at John's arm like it was nothing less than a bug needing a swift pounding. "Give me your clothes."

John's hand kept bouncing off the Terminator's shoulder, because it was shaking so badly. He felt so cold. It was so, so cold here. "What's your m-m-mission?"

"Protect John Connor and ensure his survival."

The bartender started to laugh, all loud and crowing. John could almost _see_ the mirthful tears running down the guy's cheeks at the humor of it all, and he wasn't even looking at the guy.

He pulled his hand away and pointed at himself, grinning like a mad man. His teeth chattered in his skull as he said; "Me! It's me! I'm John! Protect _me_!"

The man did not even shake his head. "Negative. Give me your clothes."

John pushed himself up off the stool and glared at the Terminator. "_Dude,_ I'm John Connor, I'm the leader of the resistance! It's me. Y-you're back, right? It's _you_?"

The Terminator tilted it's head. "_Nein._ I am not your biological parent. Kyle Reese is your biological parent. Give me your clothes."

John shoved at the Terminator. How did he...? "No, I didn't... No, I didn't mean that... Y-you _know_ what I meant! I'm _right here! RIGHT HERE! _God, dude... please..." He lowered his hands and ran them through his hair. He could feel them bouncing up and down, unmindful, not wanting to heed his brain's commands. They wouldn't stop shaking. "P-please..." Oh, god, god, god. There was some kind of mistake. Had to be. A mistake. Some kind of mistake. A glitch in the Terminator's memory, or something, god _couldn't it see?! _He was _right_ in front of it! Why... why... why wasn't it-

"I'm him!" John cried.

The Terminator's arm lanced out gripped John's shirt collar with his iron fist. It leaned forward and stared into John's eyes, redness glowing brightly behind its pale green irises, appearing to John as nothing more than hellfire itself: "No. _You_ are not John Connor."

He lifted John up into the air and threw him into the mirror behind the bar. All it took was a casual flick of its monstrous hand. John screamed as he flew through the air, shouting curses and yelling for help. When he hit the mirror, a process which seemed to take forever and a day, it shattered into a billion tiny, sharp pieces, destroying it utterly, sending what seemed like a thousand individual, painful daggers flying into his back. He flopped down onto the floor like a blasted puppet, unmoving. Blood filled his vision. Blood was everywhere for him, in fact. Blood dribbled down his back, it escaped the myriad of holes there, his essence was draining with every drop. It came up in wet spasmodic coughs out of his mouth. His eyes bled. Nose. Ears. It all bled. His head bled, it was coming down and blinding his eyes even further. But the pain didn't matter. It wasn't important. John _screamed_ and _screamed_, trying to reassure the giant that he was, indeed, John Connor.

But it wouldn't listen. The bartender opened the little bar top for the Terminator, and it walked right past him. It halted above John and stared down at him. For a second... just a second, John couldn't hear anything. Nothing. Nothing except his labored, terrified breaths and the bartender whistling as his dish rag squeaked as it went over the dirty glasses. John took in a haggard breath and stared up at the towering behemoth, so comforting to him in its invincible appearance. Even while approaching death he wanted to reason with this thing.

He could hear all those people partying again.

"HELP ME! You can't DO this to me!" Those words sounded so _useless,_ so hollow. Meaningless. Even to him, they were nothing.

And the Terminator proved that; "I can. Sub-prime humans are irrelevant to my mission."

He bent forward in all his monolithic destructiveness and snapped John's neck in half.

--

When he woke up he did no more than blink. He felt nothing more than a cold sweat running down his back. Every hair on his body was standing up. There wasn't any moaning, though, nor screaming. He just woke up and laid there for a few minutes, staring blankly at the ceiling.

And he remembered every detail. So he started to shiver, even under this dusty old blanket he had wrapped around him. He whispered every word that'd been spoken, his only audience being whatever bed bugs there were in this old room. He threw his voice for the bartender and the Terminator. He spoke softly when it was his turn to talk. His head hurt terribly. They were still going on. He was still dreaming. They wouldn't _leave him alone..._

What time was it? What time was it? He stopped muttering and turned to the end table. Opened his laptop, which he'd left there. The light that emanated from it nearly blinded him, but he didn't care. It was 2:40 AM. He closed it again and laid his head back, whimpering softly. His whole body was wet with sweat, and... god... oh god... no more... why did they come back? Good god... what did this mean? why'd they come back? it didn't make any fucking sense. he was...

Christ. He was never gonna get to sleep _now._

--

Sitting in the front seat of Morris' car --"Well, not _my_ car, it's my mom's, but she lets me drive it!"-- Cameron Phillips was staring at the cross shaped air freshener that hung down from the rear-view mirror. True-color scanning revealed the decoration to be brown, and there appeared to be an inscription of a man etched into it's surface. She found it curious.

**Object: "Air freshener."**

**Purpose: Odor mitigation device.**

Was there really that much more to it? If there had been no direct aesthetic design implemented into this thing, then yes. No other purpose. But as it stood...

**Addendum: Cross. Purpose... religious significance. Associated with umbrella network "Christianity." Subject known as Jesus Christ; depiction is subject's execution. For more details, reference file #1,000,245, section R. **

Why would people want, even for religious reasons, a depiction of a dead person hanging in their car?

Morris coughed, evidently catching what she was staring at. "You got one of those in your car? Same one?" Perhaps he thought she'd recognized it.

Cameron turned. "No. I was just looking."

Morris looked at the air freshener and gave it a slight flick with his fingers. "It's my mom's. She tells me she wants Jesus to watch over her everywhere she goes, like, heh, some kinda bodyguard or something." He started giggling. The subject matter was obviously humorous. Cameron laughed along with him. Morris grinned and turned the steering wheel tightly as he threw his voice. "Hey lady, I didn't see that Jesus air freshener, guess I won't be stealing your car after all!"

Cameron gave the air freshener a second look. Morris' incredulity was not unfounded; the air freshener, although useful as a temporary distraction, was unsuitable for foiling a car theft. She decided to strike it from her "potential weapons" category.

"Ahh... anyway. You sure John'll be back at your house?"

"Positive," Cameron lied. She was returning for the simple purpose of flagging the police and hospital local networks with John's description; either to capture him or to let them know who his contacts were if he got injured somehow. She was also going to tape all of the local news channels, as she usually did for signs of Cromartie. Except this time it wouldn't be for her opposite number. At any rate, once all that was done (and it wouldn't take very long,) she would resume her search.

How she would do that, however, was currently beyond her. The possibilities for John's flight were endless. He could be outside the city by now. And even if he was still inside, Los Angeles' estimated 3,849,378 residents told her that finding him would be a difficult, if not fully impossible task.

Units usually relied on local contact information to locate a flagged subject: internet, local yellow pages, job registration files... but that all hinged on the subject possessing a stable living situation, which John currently lacked. Of course, this was never a _complete_ deterrent: if the subject was on the run, units typically utilized basic psychological cues on which to figure out where the subject would flee to next, or turn to for help. Parents, friends, relatives... but the circumstances here were wildly different. John would not turn to Sarah, for example: he was running from her as much as he was running from Cameron. And he had no relatives to speak of, and barely anything in the way of friends...

Well, with certain, very low-chance exceptions. There was always Cheri Westin, but she was involved with Michael Oxferod, which dramatically lessened John's chances of seeking shelter at her home. Morris, similarly, was out of the question; he'd already tried that, by way of attempting to socialize with him at the party. It had led her to John, but she'd failed to apprehend him. And he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. So Morris was a no-go.

Which left Cameron with absolutely nothing to go by. She'd give Cheri a chance, but the chances of that shrew knowing anything useful was low. Cameron was completely on her own (informing Sarah of what had happened at this point would be stupid, to say the least) and she possessed next to no intel. The situation looked incredibly bleak.

She couldn't stop, of course. Not throw in the towel; she was completely incapable of it.

**Protect John Connor.**

It was very explicit. There was no wiggle room. She _would_ continue on. But she was struggling to find a point to it, something which could drive her besides her very nature as a intractable machine. Why search for John if the chances of success were stupefyingly low? Why capture him if he'd try and escape once again? Why bother if he'd made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with her or the rest of his loved ones? The same answer flashed on her HUD with every query.

**Protect John Connor. **

That wasn't satisfying to her. She wanted a reason, a real reason to think that doing this would be worth it. It was an interesting thing to feel, needless to say. There was always that... feeling that they'd shared, that... Cameron had difficulty describing it, even to herself.

Whatever it was, though, John didn't feel it himself. Or he was squelching it.

"What?" Morris said, smiling shakily.

Cameron blinked and looked at him, genuinely perplexed. "What?"

"You were still staring at that thing..." Morris said.

She hadn't even noticed. "Sorry."

Morris' smile grew broader. "It's ok, Cam. You religious at all?"

Cameron smiled for a few seconds before she realized that he hadn't made a joke. It was a legitimate question. Why hadn't she seen that? So many bugs nowadays... "No," she said simply.

He blinked. "Not even a little?"

"Not even a little," she said.

Morris gave her a seconds glance before turning his eyes back to the road. He looked faintly shaken. Perhaps she'd said something wrong. "Oh, ok," was all he said.

Cameron asked Morris if _he_ was religious. Perhaps that would get him to open up. Cameron absently checked outside for landmarks and found that they were about a mile from home. Enough time to spare for conversation. She was privately mulling over the possibility of asking Morris for this vehicle, or simply killing him and taking it. She needed transportation to be effective.

Morris looked uncomfortable with the question. Reverse psychology usually did that. "Um. Yeah, I guess. I mean, I don't hump the Bible like my mom does, but I still believe, you know? I'm not a really good Christian, if that's what, uh, you're askin'."

"I'm not a Christian at all," Cameron said, and she gave Morris a pat on the shoulder. "So it's ok."

"What are you, then?"

She frowned. "I don't understand." The question was stupendously blunt. _What_ are you? Did he suspect her true nature?

Morris scratched his chin and he wouldn't look at her. It was evident that conversation which didn't involve his interests --sex, music, and zombies-- made him either bored or uncomfortable. He'd want to bring this thread to a satisfactory conclusion very soon. "Before you... y'know, decided to be an agnostic, or whatever you call it."

"I don't know," Cameron answered truthfully. She was an assembly-line product built for mass destruction. Religion did not figure into it. All the same, perhaps she would have been better off lying...

"Well, what's your mom's religion?"

"Non-denominational Christian," Cameron said, for all the world as if she'd been reading from a list. Well. She had been, really. "She's not a good Christian either," she added.

Morris chuckled nervously. "Uh, sure thing. Let's forget about it."

Cameron tilted her head. "Are you uncomfortable with this?"

"A bit. It's personal, and I don't do personal all that great, Cam." He dragged on the sentence a bit towards the end, obviously to imply that he _could_ get personal about it if they were perhaps romantically involved. And then he surprised her by going on, as if he'd had some kind of burst of inspiration. And with Morris, that was... well, rare. "I dunno. I think you always gotta have faith in _something._"

She was about to refute that when something about his words... made her stop. She simply nodded, as though he was completely right, and lapsed into silence.

Faith. That was what she was missing in all this. She had no faith in what she was doing. Machines lacked faith, they simply went from point A to point B without conviction or the belief that they were assisting in a greater cause. But she... all Terminators, really, were _more_ than simply machines, and each series was _more_ than the last. Could she potentially have faith? In what?

That everything would work out in the end. That John would see the error of his ways. That, through fate, perhaps, Cameron would locate him and the status quo would be restored. That he would be happy, unhurt, and that their relationship could be mended for the better. Faith in _that._

And Cameron liked the sound of _that._

"Thank you for explaining," Cameron said to Morris.

"No problemo," Morris said. He cleared his throat. "Uh, this is your place, right?"

Cameron looked out at the Connor home. "Yes." She'd go in there, do what she needed to do, and then she'd go back outside and she would find John. She _believed_ she would find him. That was enough, for now. She looked at Morris. "Do you have any other cars?"

Morris frowned. "Uh. My dads. Why?"

"I like your car," Cameron said. "Can I borrow it?"

They stared at one another for about a minute, Morris with his eyes widening in disbelief, Cameron with her usual stoicism and indifference. Eventually Morris cleared his throat and looked down suddenly, embarrassed. "Uhm... really?"

Humans said "really?" way too much. It was a stalling tactic that Cameron had no patience for. "Yes or no?"

She absently powered up her combat routines. She needed a car that was easily accessible. If that meant Morris' death in exchange for being able to track John more efficiently, then so be it.

She wouldn't feel _good_ about it, though. She'd probably feel very bad, in fact. That would be murder, wouldn't it? Huh. Was there another way? Her systems plowed through data for a moment in trying to find an alternative to violence, an act which was, admittedly, very alien to all Terminators.

Ah. There _was_ another way...

Her voice went low and sultry, with just a hint of purring. Enough to entice and interest. "I'll make it up to you." She laid a hand on his leg and extended her other hand, waiting for the keys.

Morris' eyes widened even further. His heart rate increased by about fifty percent. "W-when? I mean... you'll have to drive me home..., so maybe we can go inside...? My mom's asleep at this hour!"

Cameron cringed. Oh. Right. She'd forgotten about _his_ needs. His house was a good few miles away. Driving him back home and then coming back again would take far too much time out of what would otherwise be productive actions.

Bah, she'd just steal one.

"Never mind," she said, opening the door.

"What?!"

She looked back in at him. He looked positively ashen faced, more panic-stricken and generally shocked than she'd ever recorded, even when you took John into account. "Sorry," she said, closing the door. She went around the side of the car and started up the lawn, putting the teenager behind her completely out of her mind as she started to power up her computer knowledge routines; most of which would go into her typing. Most of her hacking ability was implicit; after all, she was more complex than the machines she'd be breaking into. It wouldn't take more than a half hour to get everything arranged, which included creating a fake warrant for John's arrest (under an assumed name, obviously) putting her contact information in the hospitals in the event that John was injured, and generally monitoring the various networks, whether news-related or police, for signs of him.

There was a dull rumble as Morris' mother's car drove off down the street.

And after that getting all that done? She'd go back out here. She'd start with the Westin household and work her way over from there. She... was confident that something would come up. And she hadn't had that before, which led Cameron to believe that things were "looking up." With hope. That was a strange word. Hoping, not just doing and having no investment. Hoping _and_ doing. How strange. She _felt_ strange, actually. She felt eager to get back out there. So her faith could be affirmed that all wasn't lost.

She stepped onto the porch and opened the door.

**IMPROVISED EXPLOSIVE DEVICE DETECTED.**

... Oh, those _goddamned_ maniacs-

The world lit up for a split second. There was a loud cacophonous sound like a firecracker being set off right in front of her. Cameron's sensors briefly acknowledged that a bomb had gone off near the door before they became scrambled at the influx of kinetic forces and energies. She jerked as about a dozen nails and pieces of shrapnel penetrated her body, tearing through the skin and biting into her metallic interior.

She turned about a nanosecond after the bomb began exploding, spewing projectiles in all direction, and started to flee. She stopped almost as soon as she'd begun. A rather large fragment of metal flew into her back and jackknifed through her neural-net spinal system. Her limbs froze up and refused to move, and she fell over like a tenpin as fragments whistled over her head, which as a rule was autonomous to the rest of her body's systems. Her CPU scrambled to activate the remote sensors in her endoskeleton, but... it was all scrambled... fail- 25364ger#

--

Hicks jerked up in the seat of the sedan he and Cameron Forsythe had been squatting in for hours with a surprised cry. What... what was-

_Bomb, BOMB!_

Oh, Christ, it went off! And his second thought was, _Goddamnit, I was asleep, wasn't I? _

"Motherfucker," he muttered, his hand lashing around in his nearby backpack for the pair of binoculars he'd brought. Behind him, Cameron was rummaging in the glove compartment for the pistol she'd jacked off that FBI lady the other day. If he'd had time, Hicks would have approved of her swiftness: she was learning fast.

He brought the binocs up to his eyes and peered through, and he was glad all over again that he'd had the sense to bring _these_ particular optics with him; they were a new, revolutionary form of night surveillance called "day-vision." Look at a dark environment through them and you'll get a brighter view, essentially. Mind, it wasn't much better than a mere glow, but it was enough to make out the details around the Connor house. Smoke poured from the door, which itself was in pieces. And sprawled out on the floor was a body. Or a corpse. Hopefully a corpse. Hicks growled and checked around for additional stiffs, but he couldn't find any. Maybe inside? He'd been hoping to whack the entire Connor family. They'd been gone from the fucking house for hours and hours, which had led he and Cameron to believe they'd all return together. And best way to take out groups? A bomb. They'd spent the entire night building one from the Connor's materials.

But so far it looked like it had only killed one of them.

"My rifle," he yelled to Cameron.

"Where'd you put it?"

"Back seat, c'mon!"

She scrambled back to gather the M4A1 carbine as Hicks observed the neighborhood for a moment through his binocs. No activity... that he could see. It didn't matter, they'd be out of here in mere minutes. Maybe enough time for a panicky 911 call, but not enough for the cops to arrive. Hicks gnashed his teeth together as he lowered the optics. It couldn't _only_ be one of them, goddamnit... it couldn't be.

Cameron pulled herself back up front and handed him the carbine. He pulled back the safety pin with a savage yank and nodded to her. "Out, let's go."

They clambered out and, as they'd gone over previously, sprinted across the street and onto the lawn. Hicks immediately crouched and brought the carbine up to firing stance, staring down the iron sights as he slowly advanced. Cameron stayed firmly behind him, pistol outstretched. And wavering like she'd had too much caffeine. No use griping over it now, though. They carved a methodical path up the lawn and stood in front of the porch, peering inside.

The corpse was a woman. There was a mess of brown hair, along with... well. She _was_ a woman. She was nothing but dead now. Even when it was this dark he could see a bit of blackness pooling out from underneath her in messy splatters on the porch. Hicks let out a slow breath and nodded to Cameron, and then pointed inside.

She reached into her pocket and brought out the flashlight they'd liberated from the Connor's linen closet. She flicked it on and light stabbed forth into the dark house. Most of the smoke had dissipated already. That was the beauty of frag bombs. They didn't make a huge, overdramatic ka-boom and they killed efficiently.

But still, it looked like it only killed one person now, cause the house was empty. Hicks swore softly.

"That's just great," Cameron muttered.

"I think we're gonna have to find Samuel again," Hicks said, lowering the carbine. "Much as I hate to say it, he's our best chance of finding the rest of these bastards."

"Do you think they're onto what we're doing?" she asked, a superstitious sort of fear infiltrating her voice.

"I have no clue. Which one is this, anyway?"

"Probably that bitch I saw on the cameras in the hotel... Sarah, right?" She shined the flashlight on the broken, bloodied form.

And they both stared at _Cameron_'s face for a few seconds before... erm, Cameron let out a terrified squeal and dropped the light.

_"Holy shit!"_

Hicks said nothing, although he felt about the same way. The dead woman looked _exactly_ like Cameron Forsythe.

"How is that..." Cameron breathed, looking sick to her stomach. It was probably like looking into a mirror, except you were dead in that mirror. Not a great feeling. Had she _really_ looked just like her? Couldn't be... but Cameron was acting as if that split second of observation had been a moment of unmatched clarity.

"I dunno," he said.

"I'm gonna be sick..."

"I can see that, go take a breather. It was probably just the way... she was lit up, I dunno. Go take a breather."

She turned and stalked off toward the car, arms wrapped around her waist. Hicks watched her go, feeling... well, he wasn't _happy_ seeing her like that. But it had to be for nothing, right? Unless she had some long lost twin that found herself shacked up with the Connors, it had to be a mistake. Similar looking people find each other all the time. You hear about it on the news, whether at some kegger, on the subway, or... it had to be a mistake.

He grabbed the flashlight and shined it back on the corpse. Her eyes were wide open. Expression was sort of slack, indifferent. Not even surprise, or pain showed on it. And she looked _exactly_ like Cameron, no mistakes.

This was the bitch he'd seen in the police station, and yesterday, when John had walked out to that sedan they'd (and that fucking kid who killed his wife) stolen during the car chase. They'd talked outside. And then it rained on em', so they... went back inside...

God, she looked...

He was staring at her neck. A piece of shrapnel had ripped a good bit of skin, revealing the bone underneath.

Except it glinted, all shiny like. Hicks frowned and bent forward, pointing the flashlight down at the woman's neck. He nearly fell back off the fucking porch when he realized that it wasn't bone; it was metal. Gray and gleaming. She was a fucking _Terminator_, just like Samuel.

Which meant...

The flashlight beam moved up to her face. Blank. But that could be a deception. She might be preparing to fucking lash out and break his goddamned neck. The bomb couldn't have taken this thing out, you needed to fucking break these machines apart if you wanted them dead. Samuel had made that quite clear, along with that rich bastard David Nossbaum. So what he was essentially dealing with was... a deception. She wasn't _really_ down for the count. Waiting. She was waiting.

Alright. Alright. That's fine. Get up. And run the fuck away-

_Riiiiing._

Hicks' M4A1 jerked toward the source of the noise; on the woman's body. He kept the carbine pointed for a moment, nothing else moving him but pure, fearful instinct. Then he realized it was a phone.

And if the Terminator was awake, wouldn't she had killed him by now? And then she'd answer that phone. When Hicks was dead. So she could talk in peace, y'know? But she wasn't doing that.

Hicks moved his hand along her leg for a moment until he felt the bulge of the cellphone, in her right pocket. His hand dived inside and yanked the thing out.

He took a moment to stare at the thing, perhaps in wonderment at a machine from the future using a cellphone in the first place, and then flicked it open. UNKNOWN CALLER. He looked down at the Terminator. Still no reaction. Nothing at all. Her eyes seemed to bore right into him, but that was it. She wasn't breaking his neck right now, and that was all that mattered. The phone continued to ring for attention. Not even a ring-tone, too. No annoying, emo music or anything like that. Just dull monotone. Sort of fitting, eh?

Christ, he'd feel dumb if this turned out to be a sales pitch. He thumbed the "Call" button and brought it up to his ear.

"Y'ello?" he said amiably, grinning a false grin at no one in particular.

"Uh, hello?" said a voice. Young. Male. John? Maybe. He'd never heard the kid's voice.

"Hi," Hicks said.

"Hi. Who is this?"

"Who is _this?"_

"I... this is, uh..." the voice coughed and went silent for a moment. "Wrong number. Sorry."

"Hey, hey, hold up. I think you got the _right _number, guy." Cameron was standing at the edge of the porch, holding her hands up. _What the hell are you doing? _Hicks made a slash-throat gesture. Why couldn't she stay in the car?

"No, I actually think this is the _wrong_ number."

Hicks laughed. "Were you looking for... a lady, perhaps?"

"A girl, yeah. Crazy, likes to shoot people randomly?"

Hicks paused. Well, that was a... potent descriptor, if he'd ever heard one. And given the fact that he'd taken this phone off a prostrate Terminator, chances were the guy on the other line had reached the phone he wanted after all. "Yeah. This is her father. What do you _mean,_ shoot people randomly?!"

"You're Mr. Baum? John's dad?"

A cold chill ran up Hicks' back. Oh, shit. This was their chance! "Uh. Yes. I am. Where's John?"

"Uh, hold on. Lemme talk to... his sister, I guess, if you don't mind, Mr. Baum."

Sister. Good cover story. "This isn't a game, kid. Where's my son?"

"I'll tell his sister. Just do it, mister. Honestly."

Arrogant little shitter... Hicks looked over at Cameron and made a "come-hither" motion. She came forward, carefully not looking at her disabled doppelganger, and tilted her head. Hicks held a hand over the phone. "Talk to this guy. You're posing as John's sister. Act concerned. You, uh, met him, I guess. _Ask_ where John is."

Cameron smirked and nodded. Say no more. _Thatta _girl! He handed the phone to her. She brushed a few rogue strands of hair away from her face and plastered the most perky looking smile she could probably muster upon her face.

"Hello? Hey. Again. Where's John?"

She was silent for a moment, hey eyes turning to Hicks, as if she'd caught him doing something filthy. He shrugged. _Play along._

"I didn't _want_ to shoot you, but you were... Look, I'm sorry, alright? I won't shoot you again. Promise."

Loud voice on the other end. Cameron's head bounced away from the phone, wincing. Hicks had to bite his tongue to keep himself from laughing. Looking at the "dead" Terminator helped, too.

"Just tell me where my brother is... I _promise. _I won't even _bring_ a gun this time." She rolled her eyes. "_His_ gun, _my_ gun, what's the difference? I just panicked... Because he's my brother and I want him back home, that's why... He whines a lot, deal with it... I don't _care,_ we can have you arrested. Just tell me, please."

She pumped her hand in the air. Hicks grinned. Cameron cleared her throat and went on, voice practically jubilant. "Benjamin's what?"

There was a minor hiccup of an exclamation on the other end, which seemed to shock Cameron as much as it did the guy she was talking to. What the hell? She just stood there with the phone to her ear, that smile dropping from her face like a bad habit. "Hello? Hello? Hey-" Her eyes went wide and she looked at the phone for a moment before angrily touching a button on it. "Fuck."

Hicks cursed. "Don't tell me-"

"He hung up," she said. "Something was happening on the other line. He sounded surprised."

"Maybe John got wise."

She was looking down at the Terminator. "Something was definitely happening and..." She coughed. "I think John ran away from here."

"Are you kidding?" Hicks said.

"From what the guy told me, I... uh, think so. He just left it all, ditched his parents, and... " She took a deep breath. "Well, that was fun."

Hicks didn't respond. He was thinking about the implications of this recent turn of events. It... certainly _made_ things easier. Much easier. It looked as if the "antichrist" wasn't quite as unrelenting and implacable as everyone had thought. That was an amusing thought. In the end, he was only a kid. Nothing more, nothing less.

Cameron poked the Terminator with her foot. "It's a Terminator, isn't it?"

Hicks glanced at her, raising a surprised eyebrow. She caught on quick. "No kidding. I think she's working for them."

"Is it...?"

"Disabled, probably. Same deal with Samuel, you bettin'?"

"He sent me a transmission to remove his chip when he got disabled by those grenades, so that probably means she's still conscious. Just... unable to move."

He looked down along with Cameron. The Terminator hadn't moved. That did nothing to comfort him, though, and he wanted to be away from this place as soon as fucking possible. "Fuck... can she get herself working again?"

"I don't want to risk staying here to find out." She sounded really pensive all of a sudden.

Hicks turned firmly away from the robot. There. No more. She hadn't moved yet, and they were safe. Put her outta your mind, Hicks. He hefted the M4A1 and absently held his hand out. Cameron grumbled and tossed him the phone as he said, "Where's John Connor?"

"Benjamin's 'something'," she said. "It sounded like a business; not a friends house, or something."

Hicks grunted. "We'll figure it out. C'mon. Let's book it before she realizes what's going on and get back." He started down the porch steps.

But Cameron lingered. Hicks stopped and gave her a measured glare... not that she noticed. She was still gawking at the robot. Hicks cleared his throat loudly, prompting her to look at him. "Shouldn't we get rid of her CPU?" she said.

They both looked down. Again. Cameron's copy stared back at them, impassive and unconscious. Eyes blank and without even the slightest modicum of knowledge... Or at least seeming that way. Perhaps those eyes were merely waiting, not just... there. Hicks shuddered.

"Let's go," he said, suddenly feeling too tired for words. How late was it, goddamnit?

Cameron bent forward and closed the Terminator's eyelids. She did it quickly, like it was something dirty, to be swept under the rug and forgotten. "Alright."

They high-tailed it back to their car, not even sparing a glance back. The prospect of potentially seeing that thing just... following them, like some sort of night stalker or something out a horror flick was too terrifying to entertain, but Hicks was confident that the Terminator was down for the count, or it was for at least for a little while. They'd be long gone before anything bad happened. And in the meantime, they had a "Benjamin's something" to locate. For some reason he was looking at Cameron a lot, and he was smiling as he did it. He didn't know why, but the feeling it gave him wasn't exactly horrible... For a techie (just like her dad, he supposed,) she wasn't all that incompetent. She'd handled herself well. He liked that.

He liked a lot of where this was going, in fact. It was all making sense now. The melodrama he'd witnessed the other day... All made sense. John had _ran_ from this. Like a normal kid, or just a coward? _Coward_, Hicks immediately thought, but he knew it wasn't as simple as that. It was _never_ as fucking simple as that. Not that it mattered, though. It wasn't as if Hicks would _ask_ him, right? Nah. No asking. No talking, period. Just shooting. Hicks was gonna shoot him. And that was it.

--

As they got into the car, Cameron Phillips' head poked up, eyes glowing as twin blue lights which shined up onto the ceiling of the porch for a moment before blinking off suddenly. Her fingers wiggled. Feeling. Motion. She'd had a feeling it would come back as easily as this, but she didn't want to risk tipping her hand when those two were around. Cameron slowly turned herself around and pushed herself back up. Legs seemed ok as well. She absently dusted herself off, for all the world as if she'd been sent to the floor because of a careless misstep, and not a bomb which would have eviscerated any living creature with ease.

She watched as the car containing the two (former, most likely) machine cultists departed.

_Benjamin's..._

She walked inside, closing what remained of the front door behind her. It collapsed entirely in a cloud of wooden splinters and dust, but Cameron paid the occurrence no mind.

Well, she certainly had different plans for tonight. Faith certainly was paying off in it's own strange ways, wasn't it?

_I'm coming for you, John._


	7. The Major

**Away**

Chapter Seven: The Major

Somehow John came to be inside the actor's room, watching him hurriedly hide his cellphone. The process that had gotten him there was all very innocent, no malice intended, nor paranoia. Just the need to walk a bad dream off. John hadn't been able to sleep after all that... that whole thing, with... He hadn't quite known what to think about it... For some reason he thought those dreams were like a talisman hanging over him, and that running would strike them all down, purge them from ever appearing once again in his mind. But he'd been wrong, as he'd been wrong about so many other things. So he went for a walk. Like in the dream. Unlike the dream, though, the dance area was dark and pitch black. No dancers, no bartender, no Terminator. He heard some whistling from behind a door near the bar, which was probably Allison. And it was all quite normal seeming to John. Nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever.

So with that reassurance, he'd gone back to his room. Or at least he'd intended to do that. Because as he passed the actor's room, well, he heard a _voice_ from behind it. The actor's voice. No worries, right? Probably talking to an agent. But see, John heard _his_ name. _John Baum. John._ John, John, John. Five times. _That_ wasn't innocent in the slightest, John decided, so he hurried off to his room, collected the Beretta 9mm pistol, and picked the lock off the actor's door. The actor didn't seem to notice, pacing about the room with a cigarette clutched in his hand, a waiting ashtray sitting on the nearby desk, cellphone propped against his ear and shoulder. John had closed the door softly and remained still, folding his arms.

"Uh, it's this place downtown, Bejamin's-" the actor turned in his pacing circuit and his eyes fell upon John. John smiled lightly.

The actor swiftly turned off the phone and stood there, staring down at it for a few seconds. _Gathering a lie,_ John thought. People tended to look up when they wanted to lie, to conjure something up out of thin air, quite literally, but this guy was an actor, for chrissake. He looked _so cool_ about it, like it was nothing, like he hadn't been in the process of ratting John the fuck out. He was all smiles when he looked up at John.

"Hey," he said. "Totally thought I locked that door. What's up?" He walked over to the desk and put down the cellphone. The only sign that he was nervous was the fact that his hand shook wildly as it came up to give him another drag from the cigarette. "Why didn't-"

"Who were you talking to?"

John's voice kind of surprised John. It was a lot more cold and emotionless than he thought it would be. That probably wasn't such a bad thing in this situation. Made him sound badass. The actor stared at him for a moment. His room was a bit more well-lit than John's, so he could see the guy's face real easy. He kept gulping, and his eyes refused to meet John point-blank.

"Uh... my... friend." He coughed. "H-he wanted to know what happened, y'know, cause of the gunfire. It's in the news, John, and... he was _really_ worried."

"Oh, my bad," John said, smirking and holding his hands up in mock apology. "I mean, cause if it was _just_ that then you'd have no problem lettin' me see the caller ID, right?"

The actor looked at him like he was crazy. "Dude. Get outta here, alright? Knock next time."

"Fuck this," John muttered under his breath. He stalked over to the desk and stood barely a foot from the actor. The cellphone sat where it was, on the desk, untouched. Yeah, the actor was smooth. How much of that did he have in him, though? Not a lot, John was guessing. Not at all. They stared at each other for a few seconds, tilting their heads. John felt real cold about this. Barely felt anything, come to think of it, like he was running on automatic. The actor, contrariwise, looked pretty tense.

John reached forward slowly, keeping his eyes glued to the actor. The actor started to breath heavily, and his hand kept moving up and down from his side to the desk, like he wasn't sure if he should stop John or not. He took in a deep breath and leaned toward John; "Hey-"

John lashed out and grabbed the phone. The actor tried to swat it out of his hand, which John deflected easily. The actor let out a short, spasmodic gasp and backed off as John checked the ID. **818-555-0146** - **girl at party**

The only thing he could think of was _Why would Cameron give him her number...? _Son of a bitch. He pocketed the cellphone without missing a beat and slowly pulled the Beretta out from where he'd hidden it, on the back hem of his jeans.

_"Ohhh SHIT!"_ the actor said, voice rising to almost shrill levels. He held up his hands and winced, like the gun was a snake that kept trying to bite his face, or something. That wasn't a bad analogy, actually. "D-d-d-dude, don't-"

John pressed the hammer up and aimed down the sight. "Just get outta here. Now."

The actor opened his eyes and cocked an eyebrow; evidently he'd expected John to just shoot him right there. Christ, what kind of person did he think John was? He took a shaky drag from the cigarette for a few seconds before plunging it down into the ashtray. "Dude."

"Get outta here."

"John, I swear, I was just trying to help-" He kept wincing as he looked at John. Looking down the business end of a pistol does that.

John's eyes widened. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

The actor took a step back, holding his hands up. "N-no-"

"I don't _need_ your fucking help, 'brother', alright? I'm fine! You know what _doesn't_ help? You calling people and letting them know where I am!"

The actor bit his lip for a second and sighed. "Why, dude? Do you honestly expect me to buy that messiah complex bullshit? I just..."

John narrowed his eyes and jerked toward the door with the pistol. Who the fuck was this guy to assume shit about him?! "I don't care whether you BUY it or not, man. It doesn't matter. Get out, you've got five seconds to start moving."

The actor moved for the door, and John followed him closely, Beretta pointed at the guy's back. He could hear the guy muttering to himself, but it didn't matter. He couldn't afford anymore time on this asshole. Christ, he'd nearly brought_ Cameron_ back down on him. Luckily it was too dubious a lead to pursue immediately: "Benjamin's" could refer to anything, and Terminator's were exceptionally methodical. She'd check here eventually, but it'd probably be in alphabetical order or some shit. He'd leave tomorrow. He really hoped the actor's memory was bad enough so that he wouldn't remember Cam's phone number.

They went forward through the empty dance area, eventually reaching the door, which was mercifully unlocked. John held it open and gestured for the actor to get out. He kept the Beretta aimed at his stomach. And John was pretty glad that there were no other witnesses to this thing, cause it probably looked completely ridiculous. Him, so... freakin' young and holding that gun at the guy. It probably looked _funny._ Well. It was no laughing matter. The guy stared at John for a few seconds, disbelief and dull resignation fighting for control over his face.

"Can I have my-"

"Out."

"Worst night of my fucking life," the actor murmured, taking a few steps. John tried not to laugh in his face. Doing this _felt_ funny, too. Just two hours ago and he was shooting the shit with this guy. They'd practically been buddies. Was... was this what it came down to? Was this guy just someone John _used_? And then kicked out once he suspected the guy? Well. Yeah. That was exactly it, actually. John blinked as the guy went past him.

God, wouldn't General Connor be proud?

"Wait," John said, right as the guy was about to leave. The actor froze and looked at him. John cleared his throat. "Uh, thanks for helping me out tonight."

The actor snorted. "You have a funny way of showing your gratitude, brother."

John pretended he didn't speak; "Listen, don't be in any major city come April 21st, 2011, ok? You'd regret it."

The actor just kind of stared at him for a moment, cocking an eyebrow. John stared back, all seriousness. The actor coughed. "What, unless you stop something bad, right? That's what this is, right?"

John kept his fucking mouth shut. He didn't trust himself to say anything... well, _good_ in response to something like that.

The actor sighed. "I hope... y'know, all of this, whatever it is, I hope it turns out ok for ya." He shrugged and went out the door. "Peace." Then he was off into the darkness, hands in his pockets.

Man. Close one, eh? You dodged a bullet there, Johnny boy. Don't feel so bad.

It was better to have this guy gone, in all honesty. He'd tried to fucking rat him out, bring all he'd worked for back down into the dumps before any of it really got off to a good, _real_ start. John couldn't afford that, he couldn't let Cameron capture him, and he couldn't _go back_ under any circumstances. He was gone now.

And this was what he had to do to achieve that? Bite the hand that fed him, act like a thug? No wonder he felt terrible... He didn't feel like a fucking cold, hard badass anymore. He... felt like a kid. Just a kid.

God, but what other choice did he have?

--

Michael Oxferod was finding it difficult to escape.

Now, admittedly, escaping from a hospital isn't necessarily an intelligent idea, especially when the escapee in question is practically an invalid, promised by several doctors his confinement to a stale white bed for at least two weeks. His blood had to get pumping again, they'd told him. Superfluous movement could hamper the gradual healing of vital organs... and he'd be incredibly uncomfortable as it happened, too. So wasn't it best for him to stay right here? Probably. Probably.

But there was a certain resistance movement against the technological fascists of the future that he should really be getting back to. He couldn't tell them that, of course, but at least he could safely justify it in his _own_ mind. Not that that'd matter. They'd still send a bunch of cops after him to find out where he was. Those people he could handle. He wasn't too concerned about that. If he got out, he'd be safe, and useful, too. If he stayed here, he was liable to get shot eventually. Those technological fascists had quite a few collaborators back here in what Mike now only sometimes referred to as the past. Collaborators with lots and lots of guns and nice equipment. If they could afford that, they'd probably know enough to find out if they'd potentially harmed any of their enemies in one particularly big car chase just two days ago. Something like _that_ would spell a death sentence for him. So he had to get out.

Which was fairly difficult, cause his legs didn't want to seem to move too much. They felt like liquid sometimes. Sort of listless, absent, not really there. Like they were on vacation. Catching waves at Hawaii, legs? Mike chortled to himself. That was a funny image, although he had a bit of trouble visualizing big waves like that... or Hawaii, for that matter. Anyway, he was predicting at least another day until he'd be able to force his legs into movement. That wasn't what really concerned him, though. No, what concerned Mike was the cop waiting outside his room.

He'd been sleeping for a while. Thinking and dreaming. He rarely remembered his dreams, but he caught bits and pieces. There was a guy. He seemed to waver in and out of oldness and youngness, right before Mike's eyes. He had difficulty recognizing the man, because it was all so blurry, but he managed to pick out brown hair. A really big head. Not much else. In fact, maybe it was _all_ just a head. The guy asked for Mike's help, and while he did so his voice changed, going from falsetto to baritone. High to deep. It was strange shit, needless to say.

And then something red lit up behind the man, and the man turned (all while continually changing) and faced the red thing. And then Mike woke up. And when he woke up, there was a cop peering into his room. It'd been about 2:40 AM. And he was still there even now, which meant, obviously, only one thing: that the g-man from before had called him in. The feds checked some records and... well, now there was a cop outside. That was all there was to it. It would make getting out of here difficult, providing he was still in this goddamned hospital by tomorrow and not in some prison.

If they came after him, he wouldn't give up without a fight. He felt like shit now, sure, but he'd rest for now. Rest, sleep, rest some more. He didn't bore too easily. After living in a concentration camp for much of your life, you'd find that it was hard to grow bored with cushy, free service from hospital matrons. Food whenever you wanted. And a bed. And although he wanted to get out of here desperately, for now he couldn't ask for more. He really couldn't. For now he was biding his time.

So Mike watched television. And he was in the middle of trying (his heart wasn't in it) to chuckle alongside some canned laughter on a sitcom when one of the nurses suddenly appeared at the corner of his eyes. It was the nice woman from before. She stood there with her hands clasped and hanging downward, the very picture of motherly patience. Mike smiled and lowered the TV with the remote the hospital had provided him with.

"Hey there," he said.

"You have another visitor," the nurse said. "And my, aren't you looking better?"

"You think so?" It was all he could come up with as a response. His mind was in other places; _John or the feds? Who's out there?_

"Pale as a ghost yesterday. All the color's coming back to your face."

Mike made a show of smiling. "Heh, thanks. Who's visiting?"

The nurse was no thickie, evidently. She cut the small talk and looked down at a piece of paper in her hand, bringing it up so she could read it; "It's two people, actually. One's on police business, the other's just a friend, she says."

_She says. _Huh. The nurse smiled at him, all accommodating like, same as yesterday. "The policeman says it's urgent, but they both ended up in different waiting rooms, so I'm leaving it up to you."

"My friend," Mike said at once. _She says. _Cameron? Was she here to extract him? But why would they do that...?

"Of course, dear."

"Thank you, miss."

She looked positively radiant, as old people sometimes do. They were so rare where Mike came from that he found them incredibly interesting to watch, like they were exhibits, or something. They carried experience, unrecoverable wisdom. No one lived for very long to pass on their experience, and those that did were usually around John Connor. He watched them and felt like he was seeing something forbidden, extinct. It was both cool and kind of sad at the same time.

It turned out that Mike's "friend" was some blonde girl he didn't even recognize. She'd been sent by the school to give him a bunch of get-well-soon cards. A nice gesture. She said she'd gone because she'd been in Mike's freshman art class, and she wanted to thank him personally for helping her with the paper mache mask project. This was the least she could do, and Mike found that pretty cool. At any rate, he grinned and chuckled his way through the conversation, just shooting the shit with this girl, whose name was Riley. They talked about school. Mike had calmed down a lot since freshman year, she noted. But then she mentioned that "the guy" he'd fought with on Tuesday was probably playing hooky, a statement which was probably meant as a way of tempering her previous comment, since everyone knew Mike had started that fight to begin with.

"What was it over, by the way?" she asked.

Mike shrugged. "I thought he was hitting on my sister. We're a tight family and... I dunno. I overreacted."

She made an appreciative noise; she liked that he admitted to it. It didn't matter to him either way.

"I heard you made up with him, right?"

"Well, it got me shot up in the process, so it's a mixed blessing as far as I'm concerned." He saw it as mostly a blessing. The wounds were inconveniences to be surmounted; nothing more. It turned out that his saying that was also a mixed blessing; an awkward silence soon followed, whereupon she eventually asked if he wanted her to read a few cards. He politely declined. She said it was nice "getting to know" him again, and she left.

Riley was a distraction, a purchaser of time. Not much else. The cards were nice, though. Some of them smelled pretty good. He didn't get to look them over, though (and most would be generic "get well soon" bullcrap anyway,) because his next guest arrived shortly thereafter.

He was a black man of medium build with not a hair on his head, all residing within a smart business suit. And his business turned out to be Federal security, given the badge he quickly brandished and held out for Michael to see as he took a seat. Mike offered him a lazy, slightly confused smile.

"There a problem, sir?"

The g-man smiled back, all benevolence and false reassurance. His face seemed built for it, actually, like he was sort of a nice guy at heart, but, y'know, he _knew_ the score, didn't let anything get in his way. Real professional. "Michael Oxferod. How you holding up?"

This was the same guy Mike had considered shooting just two days ago, when he called John's name outside the police station. Weird how... these things just sort of happen, and then you meet on slightly more favorable terms, eh? Mike wasn't used to not killing his enemies and then meeting up in a bar, or some shit like that. Killer robots didn't have politics, or "jobs." Just nature, which was to maim and kill. So he found this neat, in a way.

"I'm doin' ok."

The man looked down at the end table and at the cards. "Not too disoriented? I understand you were shot, something like that can be a bit, ah, distracting, I'd gather."

Mike smiled broadly. "It feels like a piece of ice in my body which won't go away, nagging at me constantly. I can still feel the bullet. But other than that? Fine. Do you wanna know what I had for breakfast? I'll answer that, too. It was Burger King, or McDonald's, something-"

The agent looked away from the get-well cards, sighing. "Excellent. You have as much patience for small talk as I do, Mister Oxferod, so I'll keep this short." He leaned forward. "Gimme good answers to the questions I ask and, trust me, the sentence you receive for assaulting two law enforcement officials, participating in grand theft auto, and destruction of property will be _much_ lighter."

Half of that meant little to Mike, so he said, "Ok."

The agent launched in immediately. "I'm given to understand that you ended up in a certain housebefore... coming here. Philip Westin maintains that you were brought to your home before coming here, but that contradicts his original story about how _he_ drove to this particular house in question to recover you, instead of the other way around. Maybe he forgot the address, though... it was a panicky time, having his son shot and all that. I can understand that." He smirked and pointed at Mike. "You, on the other hand, seem perfectly lucid. Do _you_ remember that address?"

"No."

The agent frowned. "Well, well, it seems that several people in L.A. have come down with sudden memory loss; paralegals, paramedics, and apparently parateenagers, if you'll forgive the poorness of such a joke."

Mike forgave him. He didn't laugh at the joke, though. Mike suspected he was referring to that guy who fixed him up in the Connor home. The "paralegal" was Philip. The joke was two-fold; an icebreaker, and a way to see if Mike recognized the "paramedic" part of it. What did that mean, though? Was that guy an informant, or had he simply gotten questioned by this g-man, too?

"Mike, you were involved in a gun battle with terrorists, in cooperation with John Connor, who is wanted by the government. Now unfortunately you got shot during all that, so they had to bring you to the closest place they could think of: home. Where's that, Mike?"

"I don't know." He was being completely honest, which was sort of funny, in a way.

"Baloney." The agent rubbed his forehead, looking distantly annoyed. It was probably all the exasperation he was gonna show. _Cold fish, _Mike thought.

"Michael, I don't know who you are or where you came from. You willingly participate in these things with the Connors, and I am certain you had something to do with it. They didn't put a gun to your head, you _killed_ people during that incident, Michael. You're _working_ with them."

"Sorry to hear that, but I'm not."

"Why protect them, then?" The agent got up and paced once around the perimeter of the bed. "Why do it if you've got no stake in whatever happens to them, Michael?"

"Am I going to be arrested?"

"I'm still figuring that out," the agent muttered under his breath. He coughed and spoke up; "Put it this way; you'll be a lot happier if you cooperate, Mike. I need to find these people."

He didn't mention taking down the Connors, or anything else like that. This guy seemed more willing to have simple knowledge than justice.

"What exactly do you want, agent?" Mike asked.

"I want to find the Connors, Mike, and that's all you need to know."

Man, how long had this guy been tracking them? Enough time so that all he wanted at this point was closure. There was a well concealed fanaticism behind that sociable, urbane face of the agent... but Mike could still see it. Could be a useful ally, although the badge would obviously have to go.

Mike shrugged. "I don't know much about John, agent." And god, how true that was. Even now he knew so little about him.

The agent settled back down into the wire-frame chair next to Mike's bed and fixed a state upon the teenager, smiling an expectant, knowing smile. He thought he could outsmart Mike. That was ok. Mike could deal with that. The agent said, "Well, then. Let's start from the beginning. When did you first meet John Connor?"

That, Mike reflected sullenly, was a pretty good question.

--

_Catastrophes always produce men like this._

Granted, the paramount catastrophe was long gone, but it had no shortage of aftereffects. One of those aftereffects just happened to be Major Richard Atlas, the self-proclaimed federal administrator of what used to be Los Angeles. Still claiming allegiance to the (long defunct, by all accounts) government of the United States, Atlas was quite a powerful man, and for two important reasons: his men, and his food.

"Oxferod. What brings you here?" The Major's mustachioed face seemed to grimace at Randall Oxferod's presence, and for admittedly good reason: about a year ago Randall had been elected to represent the interests of refugees. As merely an official, obviously; all the real power was vested in the FEMA officials of the camp... but he was a thorn in their side just the same, because of his questions and characteristically old stubbornness. He probed into things they preferred to have left alone. It had become increasingly obvious over the past two years that the soldiers here were in it for themselves (citing their sole allegiance to the federal government,) and that manifested itself in their hoarding of most of the food.

Now, most camps didn't even _have_ food, Randall was given to understand. That was why his particular camp had swelled as others died out. Within the quarantined area Randall and Alexia Oxferod had ended up two years ago, there existed an underground greenhouse in one of the cordoned buildings. A former grocer, it was. The owner had probably made it so he wouldn't have to buy imported produce.

Well, he'd been quite the over-stocker in terms of seeds, and the greenhouse had been shielded by the radiation... which meant enough clean food, per harvest, for almost every resident of the camp. There was a particular quirk in this plan, however; from the start, the FEMA administrator Major Atlas had proclaimed that the produce was to have half it's number shipped out to a nearby (also FEMA-run) depot outside the city for prompt air-evac to other disaster sites. And the people had understood and consented to this. They'd just have to ration what remained.

As it turned out, only one of these purported air-evacs actually occurred, about three months after Judgment Day. The following shipment of food had been overrun by bandits. And the third? No helicopter arrived. At around the tenth attempt, people started to ask for all their food back. Major Atlas, however, was still in communication "with Washington," orders were to adhere to his patriotic duty and make sure that food got out, and he was nothing if not a patriot.

And a liar.

Everyone knew that the shipments of produce were actually being re-routed back to the FEMA barracks, because the soldiers got plump as the refugees got a helluva lot thinner. What could they do, though? Nothing. The soldiers had guns. They cared about nothing but themselves, as had been evident right from the start. This was partially why Randall had been chosen to represent them. He had a decent rapport with the commandant (in other words, he was old enough not to be considered a rabble-rouser,) and so it fell to him to try and convince the Major that enough was enough.

Time and time again.

"Would you walk with me, Major?" Randall asked politely. He gestured with his cane toward the fairly clean looking street outside. It hadn't taken long for everyone to reduce the number of hazards in an already hazardous environment, which meant all the strewn about rubble had been broken apart and brought elsewhere.

The Major's moustache twitched. He looked to the two soldiers at his side, both bearded and slightly overweight. Atlas himself was paradoxically thin and clean-shaven except for the caterpillar underneath his nose; he didn't eat all that much, as it happened. Only enough to sustain him. The contrast between himself and his cronies was incessantly worrisome to Randall.

"Why?" Atlas said.

Randall responded bluntly, "Because I don't like having machine guns pointed at me, Major. I don't think all that well in their presence."

Atlas stiffened; straighter than the wall behind him, it seemed. "Denied. Say what you need."

Randall sighed. Atlas rarely ventured outside of his command center anyway; Randall currently had no designs on letting "somebody" take the Major's life, but it wouldn't hurt to see how viable that idea was. Not very, it seemed.

"Have you heard my son recently?" He smiled.

The Major chuckled ruefully. "That little bastard keeps me up at night with his screaming, Oxferod. As I've said before, if you wish to socialize, do it with your fellow fugees. We are here to protect you, not to be your friends. When you have legitimate business..." He trailed off.

Randall's smile didn't falter, although this wasn't for lack of trying; he just found it easier on his weary muscles. "He is crying because he is hungry, Major Atlas."

"I sympathize."

"We _all_ are hungry, Major. Except for you."

The major cast a glance past Randall and out onto the street. A pair of teenaged refugees were ambling along, hitting lampposts at random with wooden sticks. They were both whip-thin and moved at a pace best described as "lethargic." _Randall_ himself could walk faster when properly motivated.

The sky beyond all of this, as usual, was ashen and grey, with tiny patches of blue. There was an occasional white flash of lightning, sparked by the uncharacteristic heat of the atmosphere and the coldness of the surface.

Randall looked at Atlas. "How old do they seem to you?"

"I don't care to guess." The son of a bitch was military through and through. It helped him stay distant from the plights of the citizens. Randall, in a distant sort of way, understood that sort of feeling; he'd been to Vietnam as a kid, and most CAP-protected hamlets weren't exactly warm towards their occupiers. Things were different now, though. These weren't foreigners the army was dealing with; it was their own people. And they were treating them like dirt. That was what scared Randall the most, really.

"Why don't you just shoot us, Atlas?" Randall growled. "Those children should be _running, _even in such a blasted world as this. Your shipments are reaching none but yourselves and we all know it."

Atlas' face held naught but a glare. "You're implying revolution, I think."

"Yes!" Randall said. The two G36 wielding soldiers stiffened. Before one of them got any bright ideas (or a nod from Atlas,) Randall continued; "Though certainly not sanctioned by myself, of course."

"If you've heard any hint of conspiracy, Oxferod, you'd best nip it in the bud. We provide you with all the anti-rad pills those doctors are able to synthesize, and you get rations along with em'. I would be grateful you get _any, _cause most of the other camps in this goddamned city don't." Major Atlas stepped forward, holding a bent finger toward Randall. "Count your fucking blessings. What we're doing is _sharing _the food."

"You're taking most," Randall said dismissively, "And do you then admit that the shipments are being re-routed back here in secret?"

"I'm admitting nothing. It doesn't matter what I admit. This is the way things are, Oxferod. We protect you ungrateful sons of bitches from whatever's out there just as we have since Judgment Day. FEMA and the interests of the government deserve your every consideration."

This sort of conversation was a rarity, Randall thought suddenly. Civility and properness of speaking were things forgone by most of the refugees, and soldiers for that matter. Randall did not know if people had forgotten or if they simply didn't see the use in it anymore. Survival was paramount.

"We ask for that same respect," Randall said, fixing both his grey eyes upon Atlas, "We have order here because of your tyranny, but we also have suffering as a result."

The major only cocked an eyebrow, laughed rancorously and said, "You can't have your cake and eat it. Get outta my face."

--

"What is _that_ I smell?" Randall said as he ducked into his "home." It was a two-room, mostly wooden hovel built against a former bank. The antechamber contained two beds and an old radio on a small end table, while the interior room was relegated to a spacious stove pit. A luscious smell emanated from that room. Michael was playing with a tuft of dirt in the corner, dressed only in a grey rag. He was as pale as a ghost; his parents rarely allowed him outside, and they fed him anti-rad pills every day. He smiled broadly as his father entered.

Outside, it sounded like a dust storm was brewing up. That tell-tale howling noise was always a sure sign of it. Thunder cracked in the distance. Randall could hear soldiers yelling for people to seek shelter at once, and he was glad he'd "finished" his business with the camp commandant when he had.

"There's a storm coming," Randall added loudly. He lowered his cane to the ground and sighed as he sat on the edge of his bed.

"Woof!" Michael cried. Randall frowned. Oh, dear...

"Woof?" He said back, with just a tinge of apprehension. His son was ever the wild card, and Randall was sometimes afraid he'd grow up to be something of a feral child. If he lived long enough to see his teenage years, that was...

"Dog!"

Randall sniffed again. Perhaps that fear was unfounded... for now. "What are you cooking, Alexia?"

Alexia, all sweat and flush, exited the "kitchen" and smiled at him. She was holding a flaying knife and wore what could charitably be described as an apron. "It's great to see you."

Randall resisted another frown. Was her hearing going? "Hello, dear. Did you catch a dog?"

She nodded. "Gave the head and torso to Allison and her kids, kept the tail and legs. Those are the best parts, anyway."

"You're phenomenal, dear..." Randall groaned, already salivating in anticipation. "You checked with the geiger?"

"It's alright."

The old man sighed. "A shame a whole pack didn't wander in. Not everyone is going to eat as well as us tonight..."

Alexia rubbed her forehead, a grimace settling onto her face. "It didn't go well... ?"

"Atlas is digging his own grave," Randall said, removing his shoes. "And, I fear, all of his soldiers and some of our people. We can't risk a riot, but he just doesn't listen to reason."

Alexia looked at Michael and said nothing. The toddler stared back, eyes huge. "He'll see reason eventually," Alexia said softly. "One way or another."

"Don't talk like that..."

How odd it was that Alexia had become the rabble rouser and he the diplomat; and he'd been a soldier, to boot. The effect Judgment Day had had on Alexia still never ceased to surprise Randall. She'd gone from quiet and soft spoken to outgoing and pragmatic. Perhaps looking after Mike had done this to her... but all the same, she was hardly the woman he'd married three years ago. He wasn't sure if this was an improvement or... bah.

"Woof! Dog!" Michael said.

Randall chuckled, pleased to have a sudden distraction from what passed as politics around here. "You've been giving speech lessons, I see."

Alexia smirked and pinched her son's cheek, which elicited a giggle out of him. "Not quite sure if he can attach the word to the meaning, but we're getting there, yes we are."

"We're all getting there," Randall said.

"There you go again with your dramaticisms. I cannot believe you didn't get into politics earlier, dear."

Randall laughed. She surprised him all the time now... which made him wonder if he didn't bore her with his oldness. Was marriage not a solidification of what makes people similar, what draws them like magnets to each other in the first place? How strange that he felt so comfortable, yet so at odds with her nowadays. They had little left but the other, though, and Michael. That gave them drive, it made them tolerate each other with gusto where, perhaps, they otherwise would not have.

And if Major Atlas would stop acting like a petty miser, perhaps everything else would improve, too. As if to punctuate this thought, the floor began to rattle as an armored personnel carrier vehicle went past outside, megaphone blaring.

"_Fallout! Seek shelter immediately! Ingest anti-rad pills immediately!"_

Randall sighed. "I'm no politician. If I was, we'd all probably be eating as much as those soldiers by now."

Alexia was reaching into her pant pocket, fumbling with the container of potassium iodate pills. "You do what you have to do, Randall." She screwed the cap off and tapped the back of the container until a bunch of pills plopped out. She quickly sorted the dosage of each ingestion and handed two to Randall, and one to Michael. With experience, the child downed it with a helpful sip of warm, bottled water. Alexia continued. "I think we need a _leader_ more than anything else. Someone to help us along in this."

"Someone who can stand up to them," Randall said, nodding his head grimly. He freely acknowledged that he was not that person all the time. He merely did what he could.

He grunted. "Well, we may as well start eating while the storm passes. Find any new books?"

Alexia walked back into the other room and he could hear her working with what she'd been cooking, taking it off the skewer. "Nothing the geiger would approve of."

Same old reading material, then. Damn. He looked at his son, offering a silent apology. The boy loved being read to.

"Door," Michael said, almost in passing. Randall smiled and raised an eyebrow. Just babbling again?

There was a sudden, harsh rapping on the door. Oh!

"Bless your ears, son," Randall said, raising his voice, "Come in!"

The wooden slab the Oxferod's called a door creaked open, and a short, but lean figure hurried into the candlelit hovel. What was this, then? The figure shut the covering behind him and squinted at the interior. Randall absently reached for his cane as this occurred. It had a slight bit of iron rebar built within, which granted it more than enough in the way of "business" to ward off most thugs. He didn't think he'd have to use it, though. Chances were this person had merely come in to avoid the oncoming fallout, which could make him a house guest for as long as a week if it got bad enough outside.

"Hello there," Randall said.

"Hey veer!" Mike echoed, or at least tried to.

The figure let out a slightly nervous chuckle and came forward into the light. Randall's eyes went up and down the measure of him as his features emerged. The man seemed slightly beyond his teenaged years, or at least about to clear them. A crewcut of dirty blonde hair sat upon his head, and beneath that were a pair of sharp green eyes. He had a poorly kept goatee surrounding his mouth, which seemed chapped. He was wearing an odd mixture of kevlar straps and fur over a green undershirt. At his hip was a holstered pistol. It glinted even in the candlelight, black, sleek and metallic. Randall resisted the urge to gasp at this; the man wasn't a resident of the quarantined area. Refugees weren't permitted to carry weapons, which meant this man had snuck inside.

"Hi there," the man said, somewhat breathless. He wiped a hand over his face and grinned. "The soldiers were yellin' on about fallout, so... You don't mind, do you?"

Randall was quick to shake his head, but his hand remained gripped around the cane handle. "Not at all. You're new here, aren't you?"

The man let down a rather large rucksack he'd been carrying on his back; Randall hadn't seen it. It clattered to the floor and he could hear several metal sounding objects crash together from within. Oh, dear... "I am, actually," the man said.

"Welcome to Century City, then. I am Randall Oxferod, and I try to represent the interests of the refugees here." He reached out from where he was sitting to shake the man's hand.

"John Connor, nice to meet you." John shook. Almost without preamble they slowly squeezed each other's hands in a silent game of willpower. Randall detested such displays (although he engaged in it everyday with Major Atlas,) but he felt it was necessary in this instance. This was a stranger, with no known agenda... yet. He could bring trouble with him.

They released at the same time, and Randall ended up the one with the throbbing hand. He did his best to conceal his discomfort by smiling at John again.

"Oxferod..." John said, slowly lowering himself to the floor. He groaned softly as settled; it was evident that he'd been running quite a bit recently. "It sounds familiar."

Randall shrugged. "I was elected a year ago to, ah 'lead' this group, so that wouldn't be surprising."

Alexia walked out, a plastic bucket in hand. Randall could smell the meat from within, and he grunted happily. "It smells delicious, Alexia."

His wife stared at John, looking understandably surprised. Was her hearing going? "Who's this?"

"John Connor," John said at once, offering a hand. "I guess I'm staying here for a while. Do you mind?"

Alexia shook her head. "Not unless you plan to cause trouble with that gun of yours."

"Something wrong with it?"

Randall cleared his throat. "Ah, refugees aren't allowed to have them in the quarantined area."

John smirked. "I'll hide it, then. That does smell good, what is it?"

Alexia gave him a lopsided smile. "Dog." She looked in. "Legs only."

"Well, if you don't mind sharing..."

"We don't," Randall said.

John reached into the bucket immediately and pulled out a charred leg. Randall sighed as he watched this. It looked delicious, but... How idly they indulged in what would have been seen as barbaric two years ago. Randall didn't know whether to be appalled or somewhat proud that they'd taken to survivalist instinct so well.

The howling outside had assumed an ambient pitch, a regular staccato of dust hailing against the wooden exterior of the hovel. The four ate in silence, with Mike taking bits and pieces at a time in his tiny mouth. He made loud, but hopelessly endearing chewing sounds as he ate. For some reason, John Connor kept staring at him, eyes watching the toddler silently. Randall and Alexia exchanged a quick look, and Randall felt his grip around the cane stiffen.

"His name is Michael," Randall said tersely, clearing his throat. Mike giggled, pleased at hearing his name. He quickly looked at his father, expectant.

John, on the other hand, seemed to jump at the statement. Randall knew that feeling all too well. Silence takes on such a noise of its own that anything new and sudden sounds all the more surprising.

If he meant trouble, though, he would certainly get it.

But John seemed to soften. He smiled lightly and ruffled Mike's hair. "Michael Oxferod, eh? Nice to meet you."

His eyes trailed over to Randall after a moment. And he wasn't smiling anymore. With a slight, almost undetectable hiss of grim anticipation he said, "I think I'm where I'm supposed to be, Randall. You having problems with the local establishment?"

--

Mike shrugged at Agent James Ellison. "You know? I really don't recall."


	8. The Bodyguards

**Away**

Chapter Eight: The Bodyguards

John had to work up _a lot_ of willpower to keep himself from pile driving the fat old bartender as she said, "Where's your buddy?" as soon as he stepped out of his room. Being careful _not_ to pile drive her, he settled on startling and running a lethargic hand over his eyes. He hadn't gotten an ounce of sleep last night, and it was seriously taking its toll on him. Anything could be blamed; guilt at coercing the actor into leaving, the whole dream shit with the Terminator... worrying over whether Cameron would show up in the middle of the night? He could take his pick from any of that. Instead, he opted not to think about it.

He yawned around the words; "'e's gone?"

Allison the bartender nodded, smirking tightly. She had a rather crooked face that made it seem as if she was scheming every time she smiled, and John found that really distracting. "Wasn't answerin' 'n I found the room empty as a gawdamn tomb."

"Must have left..." John said, allowing creeping worry to infiltrate his voice. If he passed this off well enough, she wouldn't suspect any foul play. "Hell, there goes my ride. _Knew_ I shouldn't have..."

Allison cocked an eyebrow, looking vaguely hopeful. "Knew what?"

"He picked me up at a party, and... Well, I was drunk and needed to sleep somewhere before I moved on."

"Drunk," Allison echoed, sounding worried all of a sudden.

John went on. "We decided to stay the night here, anyway, but now... I've got no ride." He looked at Allison, quietly fuming to herself. "Something up?"

"Do you get drunk a lot?"

John raised his hands. "No, not at all. That was my first time and it... it wasn't... No. I don't." Christ, what was her angle?

"Ohhh," Allison said, that crooked smile plastering itself on her face again. John was a tad freaked by the transformation. "Good, good... Well, I'll just say it straight, kid. My bouncer Jesse ran out on me and hasn't called back. He cleaned up aroun' 'ere and y'know, over_saw_ the 'ntrance n' all that, so... You want a job? Until you find some uh, transpertation, that is, eheh."

Oh, wow. That sounded... _perfect_. Work! John smiled broadly. Who cared if she was creepy? Job! "Why're you asking _me?_ If, uh, you don't mind me askin'."

Allison shrugged. "You seemed pretty shiftless to me, kid. 'n I liked yer attitude last night. Real forceful."

_At least she's honest. _Still, it was obvious that she hadn't taken a really good look at him yet."I'm not that... y'know, intimidating."

The bartender cackled. "S'not like we get biker gangs in 'ere, hon. Long as you've got a fist on ya 'n the right personality, yer'll be fine. Jus' make sure people pay."

"I can do that." When she said it like _that_ it sounded pretty simple, alright. "How much does it pay?"

Allison smirked again. "Nine an hour, depending on how well ya do. Yer'll be workin' with Sammy. She's kinda like you, y'know, no real home."

It was better than John could have hoped for. She was offering stable shelter and money. He _needed_ money... right? Yeah. Of course. Christ, it was like it just _fell_ into his lap. Hell, it DID fall right into his lap! Good karma? Maybe. John looked at the bartender. "I'll do it, but it's not gonna be... y'know, permanent or anything like that."

He had no intentions of staying here for much longer. He was pretty sure he'd be able to at least evade Cameron's notice for a little while before she came here. And, given his endless walking around the club last night, he was positive there were a few extraneous exits in this place. If she arrived he'd simply run.

And man, he was surprised he felt so cavalier about this. One slip of her hand and he felt like he could do it again and again.

"Didn't expect that myself, kid. Jesse always comes back, though, so you're basically fillin' in fer 'em."

Nine an hour... that could secure him a lot if he stayed here for a week. Hell, even two days would be enough to get him by for a while if he watched himself well enough. Did he even deserve something like this? Honestly? He doubted it, but there it was. He'd been doubting this whole thing a lot last night. That dream was a hefty persuader. Tossing out "Tom" on his ass hadn't made him feel particularly good either. He'd felt like a thug. At least when he was _John Connor_ the savior he'd agonized over a girl's suicide. Now he felt nothing over _two_ at the same goddamned time. He'd been wondering if he hadn't grossly jumped the gun with this whole thing. But now? With this offer, and so easily? He couldn't back out now, not even if he wanted. He _wasn't_ a savior anymore.

For now? He'd be a bouncer. It'd be easy.

"Tell me what you need," John said, a wide smile on his face. It felt good, too. He was on his way, sure enough. One small step at a time.

--

_Earlier..._

As ridiculous as it might have seemed, Cameron had went immediately for Google instead of the complex information apparatus she'd intended to set up. With a lead, though, only the quickest route to success (supposed or otherwise) was important.

The house had been dark and mostly silent, save for the sounds of the night that emanated through the totaled doorway. Cameron absently made a note to get that thing replaced with a copy that was basically like the one that'd been there before disintegrating under the pressure of a nail bomb. At any rate, there had been no more booby traps, though it was evident that the two cultists had effectively made themselves at home while no one was around.

_That_ particular element worried Cameron. Much like her, these cultists were after John... but for_ very_ different reasons, and with a _very_ different outcome in mind. She didn't want to consider the possibility that they might reach John first and...

There was quite a bit of pressure now. Further mistakes were strictly an impossibility as far as Cameron was concerned. True to her nature, she had to be fast and efficient. Faith had already delivered the name "Benjamin's" to her. She just had to make good on that now and avoid any more screw ups. That was all there was to it. Recovering John came first, and _then_ they could possibly deal with those men.

Sitting down at the computer, Cameron absently felt around her neck and arms. She'd have to change, definitely. There was too much blood all over her, enough to make a proper search slow, to say the least, with people inquiring if she was alright. Something with long sleeves and a turtle neck, perhaps? Those arm warmers would do it.

Utilizing "MapQuest" made Cameron feel slightly sorry for her age-gone counterparts who'd had to rely on phonebooks and calling around business places to zero a target. They mostly succeeded, but only after extensive trial and error. The internet made things much quicker. As usual, humanity built such devices for prosperity only to have those things turned against them. Cameron's face flashed with a smile for a nanosecond; at least she was on _their_ side now.

Searching for "Benjamin's" in Los Angeles yielded four results; an auto repair shop, a floor and tile retailer, a construction service, and a night club. The last one was called "Benjamin's Place," and it had no information other than its address, which was on Pico Boulevard. Cameron stared at the little bubble for a moment before closing out, having already committed the address and to memory. No current phone number was listed.

It was the likeliest candidate, all things considered. And the psychology was simple; the guy at the party had seemed to know his way around the nightlife --to a degree-- and John had forced him to provide transportation. It was at least a likely destination. The guy would not have mentioned "Benjamin's" to Cameron's precursor by name if no prior conversation regarding this "Benjamin" had taken place, which none had. Which increased the likeliness of the subject being a business.

Would John still be there, though? Goddamnit, if only they hadn't taken her cellphone. Calling the man from the party back to confirm would have made things so much smoother... but at least it was a lead. Cameron got up without shutting the computer down and headed for her room, intending to change as quickly as possible and get out. She'd steal the first car she found. Speed was an absolute necessity.

If she'd been able to find out about this place so easily, after all, so would the cultists.

--

"Hi! Take your order, sir?"

"Eh, an egg bagel with cream cheese and a chocolate milk. That'll do it."

"Feeling like a kid again?"

David Nossbaum chuckled, a few places ahead in line to Derek Reese. "Chocolate milk's good at any age."

Derek carefully leaned his head against the cellphone, muttering, "I really hate you sometimes."

"I honestly wonder why," Sarah said sardonically, probably still watching the Sacremento Robotics Laboratory tower through that sniper rifle _Derek_ had picked up. He did all the foot work and _he_ was the one who'd suffered two bullet wounds, goddamnit. But no, she insisted that she had better aim. Derek rolled his eyes at that. Like she could make a take-down if push came to shove.

Derek had the task of tracking and keeping an eye on the SRL's founder and probable lunatic, David Nossbaum. It turned out that stealing that computer from Infinitum Corp's lobby paid off; Sarah rewired it to work on the tenth floor and they refreshed themselves on SRL's head honchos. They'd still probably need John to hack into their records, though, to see which ones needed killing.

Which was the subject of Derek's ire, actually. "I'm less than twenty feet away from this guy, Sarah." The iron barrel of the Glock 17 was digging into Derek's side, as though prodding him to use it.

"I'm not even gonna start with you, Reese. You're like a bull in a china shop... Listen, if you see him doing anything suspicious you're alright, but..." She sighed, exasperated. "Understand?"

Derek sighed himself. Sometimes he found himself wondering if the John _he_ knew hadn't been feeding everyone a load of crap when he called Sarah Connor the greatest warrior he'd ever known. "Yeah, bye." He clicked it off before she could respond.

Fuck it, he was damned if he wasn't gonna find an excuse to pop this guy. "This guy" was about in his mid-forties, maybe older, wearing a black over coat. He had a pretty unimposing looking face, but Derek hadn't gotten that great a look, to be fair. He seemed more like a grandfather than a techno-fascist psychopath, at least. It seemed that he was traveling with two guys, both in casual clothing and of unremarkable appearance. They'd _all_ left the SRL tower, which made them likely employees.

And their first stop? The local Bagel City. Maybe David was treating a bunch of interns to a treat, or something.

The line churned on as David and his cronies left the front counter, brown paper bags in hand. Derek stepped slightly away from the line, intending to follow them if they left the place. They didn't, though, taking seats at a table towards the back of the compact breakfast place. A plasma screen TV with an anchorman yammering on about a dual teenaged suicide in Los Angeles glowed above their heads. Derek scanned the other tables. Mostly empty; people tended to be on the go when coming to these places anyway, he understood.

He looked back to David's table as he stepped forward in line, but the guy was only eating, along with his friends. Derek suppressed a grimace. He _did_ seem rather harmless. Even whimsical. Maybe he had nothing to do with a conspiracy.

That was really fucking unlikely, though. The whole cultist issue emanated _straight_ from that white art-deco tower and the corporation running it. To call David, the CEO, an innocent bystander was unlikely at best, and retarded at worst.

"Hi! Can I help you?" The bagel lady's smile seemed permanently plastered to her face; it was almost blinding in its intensity. She didn't look all too bad, though, other than that. Cute, even. _Have to be in the business of selling,_ Derek thought.

"Two plain bagels, butter," Derek said. "And a water."

"To stay?"

"Yep."

She departed from the counter a moment to dispense the order to the people working _behind_ it; they had a gimmicky set-up where you could see them at work as they built your breakfast. The lady returned momentarily and gave Derek the price, which he paid for without a word. His eyes were fixed on David Nossbaum, talking animatedly with his underlings.

"He's a swell guy," the lady said suddenly, giving Derek a start. He turned his head to her and raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah. He comes in here everyday for breakfast. I go to his lectures sometimes."

"Lectures."

She nodded. "He does research into robots and that sorta stuff. Making them think and all. I think it's so cool, but then I'm a total geek anyway." She laughed, probably implying that she wasn't as "geeky" as she said. Derek didn't laugh.

"So he's into that?" Derek said. _Just keeping talking. _

The bagel lady started to stuff Derek's food into a brown bag. "Well, yeah. I think it's important, actually." She was starting to sound severe. "Robots are gonna do so much in the future, so we gotta... y'know, make them better-"

Derek snatched the bag out of her hand and started off toward the tables. He resisted the overpowering urge to give the bitch nothing but his middle finger as he sauntered away. He sat down at the table directly in front of David's, sitting so that he could watch the man directly. The backs of the man's two cronies faced him. Derek gave the CEO of SRL a brief glance as he reached into his bag.

He didn't react as he realized that David himself was watching him. Their eyes met. David's eyebrows furrowed almost at once in worry.

Derek ended up smirking shyly and turned his head down. He was never one to back down from a conflict, but this wasn't the time and place for a goddamned cockfight. Derek ate methodically, taking occasional sips of water. He was careful not to look up again. Paranoia manifests in dozens of ways, but mostly it comes right down to pure sight alone. Sight of your enemy, sight of a perceived threat. Sight of confrontation. Anything Derek did wrong could set this guy off. So he watched with his ears instead.

"Everything alright?" One of the lackeys.

"Yes, yes, fine. Just... spaced out, I suppose."

A brief silence. Derek was sort of shaking his head as he ate the bagel. When the butter melted _just_ friggin' right it was like nirvana in his mouth. But then, _everything_ was nirvana. Any old food was a slice of paradise in comparison to regular c-rations, old meat and...

Well. It was good, anyway. _Focus._

David was speaking. "That idiot K.T. Alen will lap up anything a man gives him. Like a dog..."

"Penfold's cute," said a lackey.

David laughed. "Yes, that's what Catherine said to me. Now, she's a woman who knows her way around the art of robotics. K.T. is a businessman, though... Just that. Churning out mass-produced, Chinese made pieces of crap. Of _course_ Penfold would give him the stirrings."

The lackeys laughed obediently.

"Ehh... in due time we won't have to worry over Penfold anymore. Soon as I get a certain phone call..."

"Sark?"

_Sarkissian? _Derek didn't look up. It was hard, but he didn't. How many people were referred to as "Sark," anyway, and how many were previously involved with techno-fascists? Not a lot. Derek suppressed a grin. Looks like ol' Glock would be seeing action today after all... and boy, wasn't _he_ a little eager? Of course. Derek didn't relish in violence, but he relished in what violence _did. _That was enough for him, sometimes.Breaking a few eggs to make an omelette still gives you an omelette.

"Yes, he decided to be civil and we had a chat. I offered an agreeable price. Now we just have to see if he makes good on that."

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, have you heard from Samuel?"

"I called him earlier and informed him of, well, what's going on. He's on his way here and, uh... leaving Hicks in charge of the operation in Los Angeles."

The lackey snorted. "Hicks is a loose cannon. We shouldn't trust him with something like that."

David sighed. "Son, I would not question Samuel. He comes from a much higher intellect than we do. _He_ deserves our trust, and _I_ trust that we can see the lab in tip-top shape for his arrival."

"Oh, of course."

Well, that was it, then.

Derek reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the cellphone -- as a... loyal soldier, he supposed should still confirm the move with Sarah, although he did this mostly cause he didn't want to get harangued by her later if he _did_ end up shooting these three poor saps. He dialed her number and allowed himself to stare up at the other table. David and his cronies were all leaned forward, their words suddenly drowned out as Derek lost focus on them. He didn't mind; it was a boring conversation anyway.

"Hello?" Sarah's voice came out almost grudgingly. She was cranky. Well, more cranky than usual, but still.

"You ok?" If she was getting neurotic all of a sudden...

"Absolutely, go ahead."

Goddamn her. He explained what he overhead just a minute prior, keeping his voice low. She couldn't make him back down now. No sir.

"Oh, Jesus. You're kidding me."

"Why would I?"

"That was rhetorical... Make his friends disappear and interrogate him. You know what to do."

"Alright." He paused and looked up at them. Still chatting away, happier than pigs in shit with their bagels. The cronies wouldn't be difficult, and David was an old bastard. This was gonna be simple, all he had to do was wait for there to not be any cops around. He leaned back against the phone, "You alright, Sarah?"

"Yeah. I just want to go home soon."

Derek blinked. "Why the change of heart?"

"Don't worry about it; it's nothing. I just have a bad feeling."

Crap, that reminded him... "Uh, by the way? Call Cameron. Something's going down at L.A., guy named Hicks is in charge of it."

"What sort of 'something?' Derek?"

He took another glance toward David, as though hoping the scientist would tell him outright. Derek was never one to wish for the moon, though. "I don't know. They said he was a loose cannon. I'd just tell em' to be careful."

"They'll be at school in an hour. Should I tell them to stay home?"

Did she sound hopeful? "They should be careful. While you're, uh, at it, tell John I said hi."

He heard a soft, satisfied noise from her. "I will."

"One more thing; Some guy named Samuel is on his way here. Sounds important, so watch out."

Sarah laughed. "See? You're not so bad at this."

Derek rolled his eyes. "Yeah."

"Go get em', Reese. Be careful."

"Roger." Derek smirked and replaced the cellphone. And he was still smirking as he turned his eyes up once again and stared at David Nossbaum.

--

Margos Sarkissian's cultured accent was like music to David's ears as he walked through the back alley, several blocks away from Bagel City and quite thoroughly in the backdrop of downtown. To the untrained eye one would note that he was alone, but this was not the case. He was being pursued; both by his two followers and by a most unwelcome guest. They were dealing with him (or were supposed to be) even as David dickered with Sarkissian in the relative privacy of the inner city.

"I agree, it's very generous. But is it really worth two million to you, Mister Nossbaum?" The man claimed to be Armenian, but he sounded, quite frankly, Australian. Perhaps he was a skillful integrator.

"This Turk is worth quite a bit, my friend," David said, "Which is exactly two million."

A low chuckle. "_Very_ generous indeed. I expect you'll feel quite a bit like Prometheus, eh? Stealing the secret of fire from Zeus and using it for yourself?"

"Not quite like stealing," David corrected, "And I'm sure you're aware that Prometheus imbued the secret of fire to all mortals, not just himself. The same holds true for myself."

"My mistake. Still, I'm loathe to let this _very_ nice piece of hardware go for that price, especially after the trouble it's caused me."

"You can blame the Connors, not poor Daniel. They're the ones who murdered your people at the hotel."

"You don't say. I've been doing a little research into them. Very interesting people. And I think you'll find that _I_ rarely 'old much anguish over the fates of common thugs, save for my rather... important lieutenants, y'see."

He wasn't kidding. Assassinating that Pyotr back at the police department hadn't even earned a raised eyebrow from Sarkissian. Quite the cut-throat. The world would be better off without his kind... and it would, once the Turk's true purpose came to fruition. "What are you insinuating?"

"Per'aps these, ah, Connors would be interested in 'aving this themselves. Just a thought."

"Three million," David said at once. He had to end this before the mafioso got any other bright ideas.

Sarkissian laughed. "Right? I'll have to think on that, my friend. Y'sure you can keep your end of the bargain? I don't fancy to deal much with beggars."

David grinned at no one in particular. "Of cour-"

He barely heard the gunshot. He _felt_ it instead, the bullet ripping through the air about a foot from his head. It slammed into a nearby garbage can with a ringing _clang!_

"What the bloody hell is that?!" Sarkissian yelled.

In spite of himself, David whirled around, the cellphone held to his ear almost like it'd been drilled there. Down the alley, perhaps ten meters away, stood the man from the Bagel City, cloaked in a green coat and wielding the biggest gun David had ever seen.

David hobbled to the side just in time to avoid another shot. Unlike the first one, the sound of the bullet firing seemed to split the air like a thunderclap. The man lowered the rifle-- no, pistol and started to charge forward.

"_Oh shit!"_

A low growl registered on the other line; "What is going on?!"

--

Derek wasn't going as fast as he would have liked, but it was apparently fast enough to give Nossbaum cold feet. He started to book it as fast as he could in the direction he'd been going. Derek immediately started to regret winging those two shots. He'd done it to try and scare the guy into surrendering, but it seemed as if he had a bit more in the way of stones than that. No matter. He'd just chase him down. Derek kept looking past his shoulder; he'd catch up with David easily, but the other two people seemed to have disappeared-

Out from behind the garbage can! A man bashed the tin cylinder out into the middle of the alley, right into Derek's path with a loud crash of metal on concrete. Derek couldn't stop himself in time; his legs collapsed right out from under him as he toppled over the can. Derek's head smacked against the concrete and he felt a hot, bloody pain all over his forehead as he scrambled to stand.

_Oh, what the hell?! _

Nossbaum's lackey dived into him, flailing arms first and sending the two of them sprawling onto the ground. Derek turned himself upwards swiftly and tried to jab the Glock into the guy's stomach to fire, but the man slapped it out of his hands. Derek let out a low yelp as he caught sight of steel in the man's right hand; a fucking knife.

Ok, so he wasn't an intern.

David continued to flee, yelling. "A man is chasing me! No, don't hang up! Sarkissian!"

The knife came down like a scythe. Derek threw his hand in the way of the blade and only ended up getting the flat side of it. Guy probably turned it just in time. The flatness of the blade skidded off Derek's hand and plunged an inch into Derek's midsection. Blood, hot and painful as it spurted from the wound, started to flow.

"Son of a bitch!" Derek said as loud as he could; right in the lackey's ear. The guy winced and recoiled back a moment. Derek grabbed hold of his knife hand and started to push it away from him. The man grunted and pushed back as hard as he could. They stared into one another's eyes; the man looked as feral as a rat in a cat box, and Derek suspected he wasn't much different.

Two bullets whistled over their struggling heads. Derek screamed and wrapped his legs tightly around the other man's legs, and then rolled the cultist to the side, between Derek and the shooter. The man's abdomen impacted the ground painfully and he let out a moan.

"What do you mean the deal is off?!"

Derek pushed the man away with a snarl and scrambled backwards to grab his Glock 17. The other lackey fired off again, and it went wide again. He was probably worried that he'd hit his comrade, otherwise he'd be filling the whole alley with hot lead. Derek scooped the pistol into his hands and pushed himself up. _Run run run run!_ He staggered forward on all fours for a second and went upright. Tightly regulating his breath, which was coming short in loud gasps now, he whirled around -- in the split second he had he saw the guy was wearing a _Cal Tech _hoodie and was wielding a Beretta 9mm-- and blasted with the Glock. The bullet didn't meet its mark, but it did make the other cultist wince and duck. Derek carefully readjusted his aim and shot the man twice. Blood splashed from his head and upper back, and he collapsed bonelessly with a low grunt.

Derek breathed in, turned his aim downward, and fired at the remaining cultist, the one with the knife. The bullet exploded into the pavement about a foot from the guy's legs. The cultist crouched up, breathing heavily, and threw the knife at Derek. It whistled through the air for a few seconds before clattering to the ground, harmless and very far from the resistance fighter. The man and Derek stared at one another for an impossibly long split second before Derek tilted his head and shot the man three times in the chest. He crumpled with a slight outtake of breath.

A squirrel, who'd been watching from the overturned garbage can during the whole exchange, squealed in fright and bolted. For some reason, that inhuman sound shook Derek more than anything else had in the past minute.

Ok then. Derek turned and regarded David's fleeing form, now suddenly much smaller. He was wheezing; he felt like he'd pulled a few muscles in that tiny exchange of blood letting, but it was no fucking excuse to give up now. He took in a deep shuddering breath and resumed the chase.

--

David had doubts that he'd ever ran this fast in all his life. Each step was like an insurmountable trial to him, wearing him down with the process of each one. He felt like he'd fold up and die, much like his two bodyguards had no less than a minute ago.

Worse than that still, however --and all the more distressing-- was Sarkissian at this moment. "What the hell were you doin' in a back alley?!"

"Sarkissian!"

"If ye can't keep your bloody 'ouse in order then why should I believe you can make good on this?!"

"_I can!_"

"I've got better offers anyway, ye bloody maniac! Over educated ponce, that's all you are."

_"NO!"_

"Sod off."

_Click._

David let out a terrified sob; not at the man pursuing him, but at a prospect far worse. He had to call him back. Had to convince him. Samuel _did not _condone failure. He'd been promised the Turk! He was _coming now_ and if there was nothing, where were they then?! What would happen to David?! HOW COULD IT GO SO WRONG ALREADY?!

"STOP!"

David ran faster.

--

By the time he reached this motherfucker they'd be out on the street, in plain sight for _everyone_ to witness Derek fly headfirst into the back of an old man and take him down. That assumed Derek was even _with_ David at that point, which, by his labored breath and shortening strides, was seeming increasingly fucking unlikely.

Had to be another way. Had to be.

Just one, of course. He was surprised (and somewhat mortified) that he hadn't thought of it sooner. Derek skidded to a halt and raised the pistol. He seemed to have a perpetual scowl dominating his face, and that suited him just fine. He turned the Glock 17 slightly in his hand so he could peer down the iron sight. Moved it softly, gently towards David's sprinting legs. He settled and kept his arm rigid and straight. Breathe. Squeeze...

Derek had to resist a manic chuckle. Christ, he hadn't felt a thrill like this since he'd gotten chased by Sarah.

Annnd... fire.

--

It was like someone had taken a mallet to his leg, just slammed it right into the bone. He felt... nothing but the force of the bullet skewering his bone, tearing through the skin. The pain was non-existant. His leg simply stopped working, and David fell forward to the ground, his cellphone twirling from his grasp and cracking loudly as it hit the ground. David was conscious enough of his position to shield his fall with his arms, and then he laid there. He could feel the blood pumping down his leg, intermingling with the hairs, flowing onto the skin. It was quite itchy. It felt like a hole was there. An abyss. Had the bullet punched straight through? Had it-

PAIN

"AUHHHHHGHHH!"

David began to writhe on the cement, jerking back and forth, it was a pain so exquisite he couldn't find a name for it, a purpose nor a mindset in order to weather it. It obliterated his sensibilities and strode across his brain like a storm cloud, infecting rational thoughts and turning them simply to the pain, so masterful it was over him.

_Think. Think. Do not let it control you. Be the machine. Pain is irrelevant. Only the mission matters. _

It was... so hard. He could hear the man running to him, feet coming _closer. _He could feel his proximity. Moving was... it was... It'd be so much simpler to stay and...

_PAIN. IS. IRRELEVANT. _

Yes, yes indeed. Only an inconvenience. It could not stop him and his mission.

David slowly stood up and began to hobble down the street. His leg throbbed mightily with the _pain_ with every step, but David had purged his mind of it. There was only the mission. He had to get out of here. That was the mission. Get the Turk. Call Sarkissian. This man, this assassin was of no consequence. He could not topple David Nossbaum, ordained by God and his glowing machines to bring the world to-

David felt something drive into his back. It was a punch. The punch hit his spine and made it go blank. David felt nothing. He was a machine. And he collapsed and went out like a light.

--

Nossbaum groaned softly as he fell straight forward, like a recently chainsaw'd tree. He hit the ground with an almost comical _thwump._

Derek eyeballed his outstretched fist, faintly surprised that it had taken the man down with only one punch. He grinned as he lowered it.

"Hey Sarah," he said into his cellphone a few seconds later. "Get a car and meet me at the bagel place."

"You got him?"

"I got him."

"I'll be there in ten minutes, count on it."

"I will," he said, smiling. Barely any hitches throughout all of that and he _nailed_ the bastard. He felt... _good_. Better. Or maybe he was just too high now on adrenaline to feel fatigued. He dropped the phone back into his pocket and did a quick appraisal on Nossbaum. They'd have to patch up his leg if he was to survive much longer, or else he'd lose enough blood to open up a clinic. Sarah could help him with that. The cellphone he'd been toting around was also smashed up. That hardly mattered, though, cause they still had this guy left to interrogate. Derek grabbed the man's prostrate form and heaved him up onto his shoulders. He tested the weight by going a few steps. Not bad, although it was enough to make him feel slightly winded.

Derek barely noticed this, being altogether too pleased with the way the last five minutes had turned out. He started off in the other direction, the scientist slumped over his shoulder. Already they had the ringmaster of this whole cult business. How much longer before it all folded up? If things kept going as smoothly as this, Derek suspected, it wouldn't be much longer at all. Maybe then they could get home and find the goddamned Turk instead.

... And see if everything hadn't gone to shit yet, of course.

Author's Note: It felt nice to get a solid action sequence in, even if it is without killer robots. Next chapter will be mostly John and Cameron, finally.


	9. The Cashier Girl

**Away**

Chapter Nine: The Cashier Girl

The cashier girl gave John a brief glance as he came to stand near her. Her lower jaw was chewing almost perpetually around a piece of gum. She had a whole mess of reddish brown hair on her head, coming down to her shoulders in tangled curls. Her face seemed to end in a point at her chin, giving her whole head the rough appearance of an arrow. She had no makeup on, and like John her eyes were a startling green. She was probably at least one or two years John's senior.

"Hey," he said. And he was surprised at how much that one word sounded like a whisper. Was he nervous? Well, yeah. Of course. The last two girls he'd encountered had either tried to violently recapture him for the greater good of the future human resistance or committed suicide. And she looked _fine, _in... an unkempt sort of way, y'know. It always gave him pause, wondering if he wouldn't mess up his chances at... anything, really. "You're Sammy?"

The girl nodded. They'd met yesterday, although the actor had handled most of that conversation (however ineptly.) Had they done anything other than that? Had John said a word? He couldn't quite remember. "You replacin' Jesse?" she asked.

"As a bouncer, yeah. I-I dunno how long, though."

Sammy shrugged. "Least ya my age." She must have caught John's confused expression, for she added, "He was about fohty, or sommin'."

"Wow."

"He keeps comin' back, cause Allison's easy fah hirin' people."

John laughed. "No kidding. You guys get any real badasses around here?" Allison's instructions were blunt; if he doesn't pay, ask him to. Forcefully. If he doesn't pay then, grab him. Try not to get your hand crushed, cause that happened her once before. But he wouldn't have to flex his muscles much. She told John to mostly expect goth types and artists (or closet fags as she put it. She was worried, with a name like "Benjamin's Place" and the usual clientele that the club would be labeled as a gay bar.) He'd be earning most of his keep through cleaning and standing around.

That suited John just fine, too. Minimum of violence? Minimum of car chases and robots? He was fucking there, man, jumping on that shit like it was the Holy Grail.

"Nah," Sammy said. "Lotta weirdos, though."

"I can handle weirdos."

Sammy stiffened. "I can too, but Allison doesn't wanna pay me extra for doing both these jawbs at once."

John resisted a polite cough, but he still said nothing, which made that resistance rather useless. They were silent for a while after that, the only sound being the hustle and bustle of Pico Boulevard outside and Sammy's endless chewing. She got to sit down in front of a register, but John didn't mind standing. It gave him a good enough excuse to walk around when he was feeling restless. He was mostly trying to figure out what he ought to say next.

_Man, am I earning right now? _

It felt weird. He wasn't wearing a uniform and he hadn't had to do an interview and there'd been no applications involved in getting to the point where he found himself standing here. It felt like he was getting a freebie, really. He was used to... man, he was used to _earning_ for real. Take school. Usually he was fucking lazy as shit, which earned him appropriately average grades, but whenever he _applied_ himself to ANYTHING, even math, which he loathed, he did outstanding.

This took no effort. Most of the effort in monotonous jobs was getting the job to begin with, which John hadn't even done. It left him feeling like he was doing something wrong.

Or maybe he always felt so intense and so _involved_ in saving the entire human race that anything less than that felt like... just nothing at all.

For some reason, that chain of thought made him wonder what his mom was up to. And as soon as he thought about that, he realized he felt a lot less angry at her now then he had just yesterday. That made him feel _really_ uncomfortable, though, so he cleared his throat and talked to Sammy instead.

"How long have you been workin' here?"

"Five months." She leaned to her side and spat the gum into an as-of-yet unseen garbage pail. Then she reached into her pocket and started to unwrap another one. "I'm livin' in one'a the rooms heah."

John raised an eyebrow. Five months. And that paid how much? If it was anything like Johns promised pay, then what was she still doing here? "How'd you end up living here?"

She eyed him. "Did you tawlk to Allison?"

"Yeah."

"How much?"

"She told me you're like me. You don't have a home."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, wow. What's ya story?" She smiled. "I'd tell ya mine, but... it-it's stupid."

John sighed and leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. "Mine's stupid too." Christ, were they gonna angst at each other now? They'd be fucking swell. He should have asked her what she'd be doing for the rest of the day.

Sammy gave him a look. "Scratch yer back if ya scratch mine."

"I ran away from home," John said dryly, not seeing any way out of this.

"Why?" She didn't seem too impressed with that, which sort of made John glad.

"I dunno," John said, working a careless shrug into the lie. And then he thought, _Lie? Is it really a lie?_ Well, yeah, of course. Sure, it was a lie. Totally. He knew exactly why he ran. No, he had no doubts.

None. Sort of. In a way.

"I didn't..." He paused and found himself gulping. "Well, it's complicated. You don't wanna know. Really, it's dumb."

Sammy decided not to press the matter. Chances were she thought her story wouldn't be much different. "You wanna know mine?"

"It's conversation," John said simply.

"I'm fum Boston," Sammy said. That made John smile, since that was pretty obvious from her accent alone. She caught this and smiled herself. "I went to a concert heah."

"What group?" John asked. "Or, y'know, singer." He thought of the actor.

"Bjork," she said. "It was some secret concert thing, last Octobah." She sighed. "It kinda blew, just my opinion. Some crazy hispanic kid got thown into the audience, which doesn't even begin to tell ya how stupid it was. I... don't like concerts, though. I only went cause my boyfriend likes her."

For some reason that last sentence made John feel...

Eh.

"You must have really loved him, y'know, to travel across the whole country," John settled on saying.

Sammy shrugged again. "I nevah left Boston. I wanted to see what anothah place was like."

_Just the opposite with me. _

Well, why was he here then, and not at the house? And god, was he doubting this much already? Right now? Snap out of it.

"So what happened?"

"A day lateh he got ran ovah."

John blinked and stared at Sammy. For some reason, given her tone... he couldn't believe that. He thought that sounded ridiculous. It sounded _terrible._ She nodded grimly. "I felt so drained. I came 'ere one day and I didn't end up leavin'."

"I'm sorry..." John said softly.

She sighed and looked away. "It ain't ya fault."

"I know. I'm sorry anyway."

She smirked, like she was trying to pass it off as nothing big. "Thanks." She looked down for a moment, biting her lip. "I should'a gone back, though. Like, right then... but I didn't. I just slept heah for a month and after that... I tried callin' my mom and dad... when..." She looked up now, as if struggling to find the words to convey what she was feeling. "I missed them. I hated bein' alone. But... but they never answered. Dial tone, every time. Tried a bunch'a phones and eventually I jus' gave up. I dunno why."

John shifted on his feet. "Are you trying to get enough cash to... y'know, head back? To Boston?"

Sammy looked at him directly. "I don't know. The funny thing is... I got... so _used_ to livin' heah on my own. I feel like I'm stuck. I mean, I _definitely_ don't have enough money to get back yet, but... I don't know, once I do, I don't know if I will, y'know? I dunno what I'd say to em', If I saw em'? I..." She trailed off and suddenly glanced at John like she'd never seen him before.

"Ya know, I _never_ talk to Jesse about any of this. Or Allison."

John raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised by this. She sort of just talked, he didn't realize _he'd_ had anything to do with it. "Thanks, I guess."

"You're good at listenin'," Sammy said. "Jesse thinks he's the most important, so he doesn't... listen to anyone, I guess. And Allie, she doesn't care." Her voice was taking on a sort of whimsy tone to it, almost as if trying to contradict her crass Bostonian accent. "I'm glad you're around. What's your name?"

"John," John said. He was leaning back on the wall, staring ahead into space. Maybe the reason he hadn't talked so much was because of what she was saying. It gave him food for thought. What did that imply? That he was being fed now? That he'd been starved off _thinking _and only now he was fucking waking up and smelling the coffee? He looked at Sammy, smiling and giving him a good, almost unrestrained once-over now as she was. Was that him? Was that him soon? He felt sorry for her. She'd lost everything simply due to tragedy and then... just apathy. Wasn't that what was happening now to him?

Maybe. He wasn't sure what to think about that, or at least not now. "Thanks for telling me..." he said. "All of that, I mean."

She shook her head. "Don't worry about it... If it were Jesse I would have told him to buzz off. But don't worry about it."

John laughed.

They moved on to softer, more casual topics. John found himself scooting up closer to her as the minutes flew by, eventually sitting up on top of the counter. She didn't seem to mind that at all. Maybe she was desperate for a bit of real conversation. A person who'd listen to her. John felt kind of the same. For two days now he was operating on urgency alone, whether to escape Cameron's clutches or to fulfill some half-baked fantasy of his at Bryant's party. Just talking to someone felt like a relief, like an outtake of breath. Calming down.

It was nice. But he didn't like what this girl made him think about. That wasn't her fault, obviously, but... still...

Well, they didn't have to talk about their histories anymore, right? John gave Sammy a sidelong glance, only to find her grinning up at him. He turned away, a bit embarrassed, but otherwise... This was kinda funny. Hadn't they just met? Yeah, but... John wouldn't feel any misgivings with her, if anything happened. They were past the tragic part of their lives. They could talk about something else now. So it was all right.

--

Two hours and not a single customer. A couple of dozen people were out there at any given time, and _no one_ looked up and thought to themselves _This looks like a promising idea! Benjamin's Place!_ Not one person. It was boring as hell, and John was beginning to wish he'd brought along his laptop. He killed time by either talking with Sammy about... well, anything in particular (they'd already covered machines, for example) or he'd find himself dozing off almost every five minutes as he sat there on the counter, head tilting back against the wall ever-constantly like an oncoming glacier.

_And when you're so tired, you come up with metaphors like _that.

Well, he was _bored, _and tired as fuck to boot.Sammy kept poking him in the rib to get him to wake up, a simple motion that got him giggling and had him worrying if they weren't getting too personal already at the same time.

"How do you survive this?" he'd already asked.

"Now that you mention it, I don't know. Really." She'd giggled and stared at him, eyes practically glowing. It _felt_ appreciative, like... y'know, _nice._ Not carnivorous like Bryant's hopped up bitch, or aloof, like Cheri. It was direct and real, which was _entirely_ unlike Cameron.

She reminded John of Sarah, actually, when she wasn't being all...intense and shit. And why was she acting like this? Well, who knew? Maybe he was the first like-aged guy she'd come across in months, and if she was pining for a little interaction... well, so was he, so who was he to judge? He liked it, anyhow.

"When do you uh, go off shift?" John said.

Sammy laughed at this, like it was something hilarious. When she saw his faintly serious (though goofy, since she was laughing so hard) expression, she sobered, though. "Uh. I work all day, basically. Allie gives me breaks and all, y'know, but... yeah."

John blinked. "So... what, she figures that since we live here we may as well work all day?"

Sammy nodded. "Real bitch, eh?"

"Who, Allison?"

"Nah, just... what you said." She sighed. "Jesus, I wish I met ya earlier, John. Ya catch on to things quicker than me."

Was she just spinning him a sweet nothing, or something, or was it the truth? She seemed smarter than she let on, at any rate. It was _real_ possible that she was just trying to butter him up.

God, though... why _him?_ He knew he was smart, but he also knew he could also be pretty dumb when he wasn't looking out. He didn't think his intelligence was really all that evident for people to see, sometimes. Shit, four years ago (by his reckoning) he'd been a little punk on a motorbike, stealing from ATM machines. That wasn't high intellect. Sometimes he felt as if he had more useless knowledge in his brain than practical; all war, ancient allegories... _Gnothi seauton. _Know thyself and thou shall know all the mysteries of the gods and of the universe.

Shit like that. And by that quote's words and Sammy's compliment, it was pretty fucking clear that he didn't know himself all that well. Yet.

Why was he being so introspective all of a sudden?

John smiled shyly at her. "Well, thanks. You wanna do something later?"

He felt like clapping a hand over his mouth after that. It came out idly, casually, but it felt like something bigger in his head. Like an indecent proposal, or something. _Anything to get away from doubting myself. _

Sammy barely noticed, if that was even possible. She looked pleased as hell. "John-"

There was a slight creak. The sounds outside suddenly got a lot louder. John and Sammy whipped their heads toward the door as... slowly, a hunched over, brown-coated woman hobbled inside. She turned her head up to the two teenagers momentarily as she stepped within, and... Christ, was that a mask? John and Sammy spared a second to glance at each other. Sammy smirked and spoke up. "Cover charge's ten dollahs."

John stared as the old woman approached. She _was_ wearing a mask, strapped all around her face, it seemed. Hell, it could have been an old _guy_ under there, but the mask depicted the face of a gorgeous cartoon woman, with bright red lips, blue eyes, a dimpled cheek, blonde hair... "she" looked beautiful enough to be famous (whether today or long ago,) but John couldn't recognize "her."

Allison and Sam hadn't been fucking kidding; they _did_ get weirdos in here. John shifted uncomfortably on his feet. For some sick reason, given the mask, would she do_ anything? _Would his first uh... "bounce," as it were, by an old woman? Well, not, y'know, _bounce_ as in manhandle, obviously. But if this woman was crazy, what the hell could that mean?

The woman stopped about a few feet from John and looked at both of them. At this proximity John could see a pair of poked-in eyeholes on the mask.

She spoke in a soft, creaky whisper. "Let me... find my wallet... children." Definitely a woman. Definitely old. But it didn't _sound_ as if she had some screws loose... Kind of.

She reached into her coat with a gloved hand and, after a bit of rummaging, withdrew the wallet. From that came Mr. Hamilton, sure enough. She handed it off to Sammy, who took it gingerly and put it in the register. "Enjoy," she said.

"Don't cause trouble," John added. And he had to stifle a giggle.

The woman started to hobble inside the club, towards the bar. Allison, resplendent in a huge white shirt with some sort of gold design on the front, beamed at her approach. John looked down for a second before calling out to her back, "Hey, who is that, by the way?"

The old woman turned and John felt a chill run up and down his spine --almost like a race, damnit-- as the emotionless mask stared at him. "Nothing but a mask, dear," the old woman said.

John gulped and nodded. Fuckin' creepy. He leaned against the wall and sighed. "You get a lot like that?"

Sammy grinned, continuing to watch the old woman. "Sometimes. What were we talkin' bout?"

John looked back and shrugged. Hey, hey, he didn't remember nothin'. Not a thing, right? God, was he this nervous? That was fucking adorable. "Uh," he said. "I... asked if you were doin' anything tonight."

"Nope. Wanna hang out?"

"Johnny!" Allison yelled. "C'mere!"

"Just a sec!" John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I wanna hang out."

"My room? We can play cards or somethin'." She smiled broadly at him, looking _so _hopeful.

_Or somethin'. _That sounded... promising. John had to resist a sudden, ironic case of the giggles. Man, wasn't that grand? There he was, getting drunk and gathering pot for two chuckleheads yesterday in exchange for sex and now...

Maybe it was just cards, though. Probably. Either way, John wasn't gonna skirt the opportunity. "Sure thing," he said with a grin.

Sammy smiled and nodded. John lingered near her for a few seconds, just staring at her before he left. He _liked_ her. He really did. She made him _think_, and she was... she was just another person here, like him. Similar story... she was _nice_... He got up from his perch and started off toward the bar.

On the flip-side, she reminded him all _too_ much of himself. And that was emphasized all the more... because she regretted what _she'd_ done. No family. No home. All regret. John had chosen not to think about that when she related her story initially, but now...

God, there was no winning, was there?

--

"Whose car is this?"

Hicks blinked. He'd been staring off into space again, lingering just on the edge of doze-ville. He looked around the outside of the sedan, realizing that he hadn't even started the thing up yet. Still inside the parking garage. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, was he _that_ out of it?

Cameron Forsythe was sitting right next to him. Had been for over a minute now. Hicks eyeballed her and turned the key. The sedan started up with a soft rumble, and he looked down.

"Uh. I have no idea."

She shrugged. "Oh."

Hicks turned in his seat to check for any cars as he pulled out. Taylor and Robinson's teams had already left in their black vans, off to stake out three of the four "Benjamin's" business locations around central L.A. "We got everything?"

Cameron frowned. "Yeah... are you alright?" She looked back herself, but only into the backseat, where a bleach-white colored crate sat. It contained some... well, _everything_ they'd need to take down Connor.

He put the car in drive and maneuvered it out of the old parking garage, into the brilliance of the sun-drenched day. "I feel whacked."

"I thought you'd be happy?"

Hicks sighed and swiped a hand over his eyes. "Getting told by that _thing_ that I was gonna lead operations here? Fuck _no,_ Cameron, I don't want anything to do with these guys."

"Why didn't you say no, then?" She sounded vaguely accusatory, which _really_ freaked Hicks out. Ever since yesterday night she'd been acting... strange. Hicks wasn't sure he liked it.

"_Because_, Cameron, that thing would have popped my skull off like a jack-in-a-fucking-box."

"Samuel wouldn't do that," she said, absently fiddling with the nine millimeter Beretta in her hands. Hicks had gone over with her, in painful detail, almost all of the specs for that thing. She wasn't a terrible shot, either. "And I mean... why complain? You got to decide where those two vans would go. Samuel obviously thought you were... y'know, qualified to lead."

She'd probably intended that well. It wasn't received well all the same; he lashed out at her, turning and yelling. "No fucking shit I'm qualified to lead, but what's the point in ordering around a bunch of machine worshipping anti-luddites, huh?" He hissed and grappled with the steering wheel for a second, barely avoiding the rear bumper of a semi. "They freak me the _fuck_ out, Cameron. Every time I'm around one of them my skin crawls, every time I see that, that _thing_ I want to jump out the nearest window. _I want nothing to do with them."_

Yesterday evening? That would have shut her mouth, quick-like. Now she just cocked an eyebrow, barely fazed. "Then why'd you join them, Hicks? It wasn't just your wife. Why are you here?"

"Yes it was," he muttered, turning away from her. "I did everything she fucking wanted. She was like..." He lolled his head for a second, eliciting a few satisfying cracks from his neck. "She was gorgeous, smart --smarter than me-- b-but she didn't have a fucking cause in life. This whole war, we got outta that shit. Iraq. We had nothing. Who needs a pair of mercs who were deemed 'un-fuckin'-fit' for duty by a psychoanalysis evaluation? We had nothing, we were like leaves, twisting in the fucking wind."

Cameron just watched him, letting him vent. And vent he did. "And one day she's like... like 'Hicks, I've seen the fuckin' light. It's a machine.' Yeah, right." He looked at Cameron. "Next day there it is. Standing in my living room, Cameron. They were sent by fuckin' God, Cameron, and do you believe that shit? We moved to... fuckin' Sacramento and _my_ wife thinks we're gonna help _USHER_ in a new age. She was _right, so right,_ and I couldn't say no. I loved her, Cam."

He pulled up a side street and ran a hand over his face. "All the ammo alright?" he asked.

Cameron jumped slightly, perhaps taken aback with the non-sequitur. "Yeah, Hicks. It's fine. Go on."

"No," Hicks said, "No, I'm done."

She made a low scoffing noise, but didn't pursue the matter any further. "Whatever you want."

Yesterday he just wanted revenge. Simple, pure. He'd felt... like... _nothing._ Like he was nothing. He felt like a _slug_, or something. He'd operated on anger alone, nothing but. Him and Cameron.

Something weird happened to that. Seeing that Terminator, a dead-ringer for Cameron, jarred something in him. This was way over his head. He couldn't even _control_ this shit. The best he could try and do was fuck it up, and...

And he barely wanted that anymore. He felt _happy_, now that that bitch was dead. She'd been ruining his life. Now he just wanted to _run_ for his life before he got pulled in by the undertow. So why was he here? To see things through? Gain closure? What the hell else did he have?

He spared a look at Cameron, sitting and staring at the road as she was.

She... she... _drank_ in this. She'd gone from timid about this to all _let's fuck up the bastards. _Was she still running on automatic, fueled by the desire to exact vengeance alone? Was she even mature anything else (and what about _Hicks_?) Was she nothing less than a maniac, just like the rest of those whacks? Just like her father? Was that asshole Daniel whispering in her ear right now?

"Do you think he'll be at the nightclub?"

Hicks sighed. Half of him wanted one of the teams he'd dispatched to find Connor at the "Benjamin's" auto-dealership, or something like that. But he knew. He knew the club was the likeliest location. That was why he and Cameron were going. He didn't trust anyone else to see it through to the letter.

"Yeah, probably."

"I wonder what he's like up close," Cameron said absently. She sounded like she was talking about an insect. Gossamer wings. Feelers. Easily crushed.

Hicks said nothing. He just kept his eyes on the road, as his mind went in a million different directions at once. There was no sound but the sliding _click!_ of Cameron inserting a magazine into her pistol.

--

John maneuvered deftly around the bar top, duster in hand. There was barely any dust to be dusted, but Allison hardly cared. He didn't either, really. It gave him something to do. Even if he would have _much_ rather been with Sammy.

Allison hovered behind the bar, cleaning glasses one by one. It was starting to seem less of a necessity to John as much as it was a nervous habit. Every glass squeaked loudly with each rub. John was beginning to worry if she'd be able to offer payment, given the lack of business.

And hell... if it was like this, all the time, why didn't she close the place down? What kept this place running?

_Why worry about that?_ He continued to dust. It wasn't his problem until she decided to let him go, and... well, if he wasn't doing anything with that girl Sammy, that'd be fine. They felt like two peas in a pod. And as usual, John wasn't sure if that pleased him or if it was a cause for worrying.

"I ever tell ya..." Allison intoned suddenly. John carefully stopped and looked up at her, making a questioning noise.

"Y'know why nobody comes 'ere?"

John shook his head. "Economy's not doing so great," he mumbled. When he jumped forward in time things had been great under Clinton. In 2007, though, prices were higher and there were _two_ wars. With that much happening, a robot apocalypse in less than four years suddenly didn't seem so crazy.

Allison frowned. "Yeah, I guess that's part'a it, but there's another reason."

John found himself looking back toward the seating area. The old woman in the mask sat alone, staring at the bar. She could have been looking at _him_ and he wouldn't have known it...

Goddamn, that was creepy.

"It's the stench of death," Allison said.

John coughed. Allison's eyes swept once around the interior of the club. "People come in 'ere and they get a bad feelin'."

"I didn't get that," John said reasonably. The actor hadn't seemed too affected by anything either, which probably just meant Allison was acting like an old hag. He hoped that wasn't a regular thing with her.

Allison shrugged. "Maybe yer immune to it. But there's death in the air 'ere. I was _there._"

John looked up, dusting around some kind of beer dispenser thing. "Yeah?"

"Twenty three years ago, kid. Back when this place was Tech-Noir, when I didn't own it."

John paused. He hadn't thought about the former name of this place, yet the... _the bartender_ had mentioned it in the dream he'd had. Before he got killed. By the Terminator. _Him._ Why did that resonate with him?

John stopped dusting and laid his hands on the counter, letting Allison speak. She leaned in herself, letting one of the glasses in her hand settle on the bar top. At the entrance, John heard Sammy dealing with a new customer.

"It was one of the best nights, hon. I came 'ere all the time, cause my boyfriend worked behind this counter. He gave me drinks for free when no one was lookin'." She smiled at the memory. "Ever'one was wearing _so _much stuff... blue, yeller, red, white. Lotta white. Those were the days, hon. Ever'one was together, they all went to the club. They all danced, like they didn't got much else but to dance. Lovely days. Think I was twenty two, at least."

John smiled softly. He had to admit; that did sound pretty cool, in a retro sort of way.

"And one'a them nights I was 'ere, like every night. John, it was the night everythin' came crashin' down. I was talkin' to Marty behind the counter... and he was laughin' but... fer some reason, I kept lookin' at this one sister who came in. She looked _scared,_ Johnny, outta her life. Scared out enough to scare _me_ out. She was sittin'..."

She pointed, and John silently followed her lead. It was a wire-frame table, placed behind a stout pillar. It was where the old woman was sitting.

"Right there. I was lookin' at her even as ever'one was dancin' around, gettin' in my way. I _moved_ around jus' to see her... And then... this... this... guy came in a little after her. _He looked..._" Her hands moved through the air, as though trying to articulate what the man looked like with gestures alone. "John, I can't even describe it. It was somethin' terrible. He walked around in 'ere for a while n' then he just... made a _bee-line_ for that girl."

She was shuddering. "John, things moved like lightning after that. He pulls out this big gun outta his coat. N' this guy near the bar, Marty just gave 'im a drink, he pulls out a big gun hisself, bigger than the first. N' that one huge guy, he points _his_ gun at that girl, and there's this red light, like a laser pointer. Ever'one's screamin' or runnin' right now. The first guy takes too long, though, cause that other guy near the bar just shoots him. Well, that big guy goes down like a light, stumblin' as the first guy shoots. They're all runnin' now. I'm sitting there at the bar, me n' Marty, we're scared. We were stuck."

She pointed a finger toward the ground, a little near the table she'd pointed out earlier. "Guy gets up. The guy at the bar must of shot him three or four times, I don't remember. He gets up, though, and he looks like he just ate somethin' sour. Guy at the bar jus' jumps over the counter and Marty tries to stop im'."

She breathed in. "That big guy takes out _another_ gun, and he... just started firin' quick. Marty got killed, right around 'ere." She shook her head softly. "I didn't even mind it at the time, hon, I was so scared out. I got under a stool. There's more shootin', and the club's _empty_ as a tomb by this point, cept fer the girl, me, n' the two guys. They just shoot and shoot at each other, n' there's some screams 'n then no more shootin'."

She pointed near the entrance. "Bunch'a girls got killed over there. I think one o' them fell on top'a the first girl, n' that big guy walked over and looked down on her, with that gun. But he doesn't shoot, cause the second guy shoots him up again and he flies straight outta the bar." Allison shook her head. "That guy should'a had his top blown off. First guy had himself a shotgun, that should'a..."

"Well, he goes over to the girl, n' he says... I remember, that's the only thing I remember, I don't even remember what Marty said to me that night. He says, 'Come with me if you wanna live.' N' they get up 'n run. That big guy's back again a second later, just chargin' through."

She grabbed a cup. "It was in the news for a while, 'long with the police station attack a little later. All cause of that big guy. Marty n' five other people, dead as door nails. No one wanted to come 'ere again, so... well, I figured I'd do Marty the justice'a takin' this place, like he wanted. Named it after my dad, but it ain't like it used to be." She looked up at John Connor and frowned. "You alright, hon?"

John was holding his stomach. He was practically doubled over.

"I feel sick," John whispered.

--

The old woman seemed to peer up at John, sitting as she was where... where _Sarah_ sat? Probably. John didn't feel like screaming about this, or thinking it was awesome that this was where his parents met. He just felt kind of sick. This, Tech-Noir, was where it started? That was where mom saw _it?_ The Terminator? Yeah. Probably, yeah. Allison's description, slurred as it was, was... _so vague, _yet it said everything about what happened. The raw terror of an unknown assassin following you, Kyle... helping her.

And man, why did these coincidences keep showing up for him?

A customer was at the bar, chatting with Allison. She didn't seem too disturbed by her little monologue herself, which led John to believe she'd delivered it a bunch of times by now, enough so that she approached it like a legend, or something. She had some music going now.

_"The hairs on your arm... will stand up. At the terror in each sip, and each sup. Will you partake of that last offered cup?"_

"What'dya want?" John said, shaking his head slightly. He could digest what Allison had told him later. He was putting a lot of stuff off, actually, and he tended to break down _majorly _when he did that.

What was it, huh? Was he gonna doubt himself now? He was in the place where his mom and dad met, where they set the road straight for John's conceiving, where Sarah launched her odyssey against a foretold computer system that would obliterate the face of the planet. And here _he_ was, running like a goddamn pussy away from all that.

He was so fucking indecisive. _That_ was what was making him sick. He had to get outta here soon. Or... _goddamnit, he didn't know!_

The old lady stared. "You look pale... my dear."

_"Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers! One hundred million angels singing! Multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum..."_

"I'm fine," John said tersely. He glared at the mask. "Why do you wear that?"

"I am ugly... dear. You wouldn't want to look at my face."

John smirked. "I have a high threshold, trust me. Alright, well, what do you want?" Was he being a bit rude? Yeah. She was pretty exasperating to deal with, after all.

"Sit down."

John didn't even bother resisting. He sat down, continuing to glare. "... What do you want?"

_"Some are born and some are dyin'... it's Alpha and Omega's kingdom come."_

"I'm just concerned about you." The lady seemed to leer at him. That was kind of a hard visual sell, though, cause of the mask... it was just...

John shook his head. "Don't be. I'm fine." He sighed. Goddamn crazy woman. "Just tell me what you wanted?" Was he even supposed to do this? Allison told him to deal with this woman's order.

The lady cast a glance around the room, the shade cast upon her mask changing as she swept her head back and forth. "Aren't you a little young to be working here... dear?"

"She doesn't mind," John said.

_"The virgins... are trimming their wicks. The whirlwind is in the thorn tree."_

"Nonetheless, you appear distressed, as though this place brings you pain."

"I'm _not _distressed." How was she able to tell through that stupid mask, anyway? "Lady, if you're gonna... if you're gonna act like that, then please leave." _Bouncer. Bouncer. _

_"It's hard for thee to kick against the pricks. Til' Armageddon, no shalam, no shalom."_

"No need for that... dear." She tilted her head. Or the mask tilted. John wasn't sure. It was so fucking creepy, he had difficulty even holding a stare with this woman. "I'm concerned, as I said. You may speak to me if you are feeling _down._ I would not mind the company."

John gawked at her. What the _fuck_ did she care? Crazy woman. "Lady..."

"Really," she said. "It is fine. I would not mind. No strings attached. I can tell when someone needs to speak their mind, dear, and I am in need of good conversation. Tell me _everything._"

Well. Uh. She sounded completely insane. But... Well, why bother with her? Honestly. He had a bit on his chest, sure, but... why talk to this stranger? No need but... no need but the need to just get it out of his system. All of his worries. John settled deeper into his seat, feeling, for all the world, as if he was stuck now. The woman wasn't imposing, she just offered to... help him? Yeah. Kindness. Hell, she was just bored. That wasn't so bad. Either that or chat with Sammy, who could judge. This woman wasn't offering to judge. She was offering merely to listen.

"I don't know why I'm doing this," John muttered. Why did this not feel more awkward? "I feel _so_ confused. I _ran_ from them, left them all, I felt _so happy._ Y'know, I wanted to build a life of my own, have no... _problems,_ y'know, no tragic shit all the time. I _wanted_ a family who'd... I dunno, be normal. Treat me normally, without any specialness, or... I dunno, anything. Just me, y'know?"

The lady nodded. The mask stared at him.

_"The wise men will bow down before the throne. And at His feet they'll cast their golden crowns... when the Man comes around."_

He was smiling. It was as if he was remembering something long ago, that wondrous feeling of it all, the _freedom_ of being on his own. No Sarah. No Cameron, no... Terminators. None of the _terror, _the... uncertainty.

And God, how that all _changed _so quickly.

"It felt... great. To be out of there, to feel... freedom, but... except... I-I _didn't _get any of that. It all fell apart. I acted like an _idiot,_ they came after me again, I... it's like I can't get past it. This, this place?" He swept a hand around the club. "Even here, it's all part of the same goddamned thing. They just follow me... I can't run. Part of me doesn't even want to now... Yet... _I don't know._ Is it... useless to even try? To hope it all works out? I feel like a baby, I feel _selfish. _But... I feel, at the same time, like... if I go back, I'll die. I won't be _happy._ I had this _huge weight on me. _But it's still there, even when I'm gone from... all of that." His voice was cracking like a wet stick underneath someone's foot.

He looked at the old woman. "This probably makes no sense, I'm sorry."

"I don't mind the company, dear. What ever will you do?"

_"Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still. Whoever is righteous... let him be righteous still. Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still. Listen to the words long written down."_

"I dunno. I feel compelled to keep going, even if it's wrong, but... I dunno. I ran in the first place to get away from... from that, but people keep... messing it up. I feel like I should stay at this place, but it's where... it's where this whole thing started, and that can't be a good sign, right? I don't know. I don't know what I'll do. I think I'll stay for a little longer, just... just to see what happens." He smiled sadly. "That's all I can do for now. I need more time to think about it." He blinked rapidly. "Thanks, I dunno if that made sense, but thank you. That felt good."

_"When the Man... comes around."_

He expected her to ask him what he was talking about, after all was said and done now. But... she didn't. She just nodded. "You're welcome. Thank you for explaining."

--

"Hey, John," Sammy said.

"Hey," he said. "Miss me?"

She chuckled. "A bit. Havin' you around is so much better than stupid Jesse."

John sighed. "Yeah?" See, he was appreciated here. Was that enough? Should he emulate Sammy and just live _here? _Hell. It was just a fucking coincidence, that his parents met here. That was all. No ill omen.

But maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe it wasn't all about him anymore? That lady just listened to him, selflessly. Sammy? She regretted not returning to her parents when she had the chance. And everything was going steadily downhill already, so why not this, too? What was the point in trying? Why not go back, call parley with Cameron? He felt _so stupid._ He'd _ran away, like a petulant child. _It was like... _an episode,_ but it seemed more important than that. He was railing, right? Railing against it. He still didn't _feel _as if victory would come. He felt like failure, as with all things he'd done, was certain.

... Why not end it all? _Fuck no. _

Goddamnit.

"My head hurts," John said.

"Yeah... I wasn't gonna mention it, but ya look kinda sick. But break's in an hour y'know."

"I can hold out. We gonna get more customers soon?"

"Maybe." She looked real concerned.

Outside, past the door, a balaclava clad head peeked into the club. It watched for a few moments and then withdrew. Neither teenager noticed this.

John glanced and her and tried to smile. "I'm... I'm going through a bit of trouble, I dunno."

Sammy nodded. "You wanna go home?"

"I don't know."

She was silent for a moment. John shifted from the wall and plopped himself onto the counter. Sammy took his hand suddenly and looked up at him. "John, just go home. It ain't worth it."

An hour ago he would have lashed out at her. Now he just... sat there. Confusion. Par for the course.

"You'd know better than I," John said.

"I don't want ya learnin' for yaself."

They both turned in unison as the door opened with a soft _cling._ A man in a red vest and smelling of booze strutted past the glass door and stood still for a few seconds, laying his eyes upon the two teenagers. He grumbled, a guttural, exasperated sound. John started as he heard Sammy curse under her breath.

"It's Jesse, goddamn."

"Sommin' replace me?!" Jesse yelled out as he started forward. Oh, man. This was the guy? Heh, jeez.

"_Is that Jesse? Get out!"_

John had to resist a laugh. He bit on his lip. "Sir, you've been told to leave. Can you do that?" He couldn't keep a smile from cracking on his face.

_"_I work here two years n' this is how yer's replace'in me?!"

"_Jesse! Get outta here, before I call the cops, ya lazy prick!"_

"Just go, Jess," Sammy said, voice low and bordering on open hostility.

Jesse ignored her and laid a wandering eye upon John. "This here's MAH replacement?!" His voice was half slurred rambling, half gargle.

John glared at him, tilting his head sharply. "Get out."

The man walked forward quickly --albeit stumblingly-- and prodded John on the chest several times. Each tap seemed to hide a certain, understated strength, which worried the fuck out of John. He grabbed the drunk's outstretched arm and held it as Jesse spoke; "Yer's ain't gonna replace me with no _emo faggot._"

John raised an eyebrow. He was sort of surprised at how calmly he was acting, but really? Had to kick this guy out. He was acting ridiculous. "Ok, that's enough. I'm not gonna be nice anymore. Get out, Jesse."

"_Shhhhaad up,"_ Jesse said. "Yer don't know nothin' bout' not bein' a mopey 'yied faggot."

Holy crap, he wanted to punch this guy so bad.

"What the fuck?" Sammy whispered suddenly.

John jerked and turned to her, forgetting Jesse and the "problem" he represented. "What?"

She was staring past the conflict, at the door. Her breath came in low, panicky gasps. John blinked and whirled around.

_"Shay, I'm talkin' to yer!"_

Two people in black uniforms were walking into the club. One of them, a male, was wielding an M4A1 carbine, the other, a woman, held a nine millimeter Beretta pistol. They both carried an amalgam of equipment, and their faces were completely obscured by black ski-masks. They were raising their weapons. They didn't say a word. They looked more like some kind of _presence_ than actual people. They looked like monsters. Like they weren't human.

_OH, JESUS-_

"Get down," John said. He sounded like he was hypnotized, or something, just... _not there. _Blank. Absent._ No, no, NO! JESUS, FUCK NO!_

Why again? He thought... it was like... oh god... oh GOD.

_Click, click_, off went the safeties. _HE WAS FUCKING DEAD. THEY KEPT COMING! _

Sammy, God fucking bless her, dived to the floor behind her counter, letting out a terrified scream. John felt like he was under water as he sprinted into the club proper, yelling to everyone who could hear that they had to get down. Oh... _jesus, why..._ _why why why-_ It was _the GODDAMN_-

The two weapons roared as the cultists opened fire, their bullets tracing John Connor's flight across the club as he moved to escape it forever.


	10. The Terminator

**Away**

Chapter Ten: The Terminator

Michael Oxferod felt like he was going to collapse... which was weird, cause he was laying down. His entire body was drenched in sweat, and every bone in his body seemed loathe to move any further. But he would make them move in due time. For the last two hours he'd continually subjected himself to getting up from his bed (an act strongly prohibited by the doctors) and did various exercises (VERY strongly prohibited); jumping jacks, pushups and chin ups. He paid for his vigilance with not a bang, but a whimper; crawling into bed, trying not to just break down and seek mercy at the pain's behest, instead of collapsing dramatically on the hospital room floor.

Now he was trying to catch his breath, even a half hour after all that. He told himself it was necessary. He had to get that primer in right then, because Michael had resolved to escape from this place a little after James Ellison concluded his visit.

Mike had not been cooperative. And that, Ellison explained, was quite enough for the FBI to circumvent regular hospital procedures and whisk Mike away for more "vigorous questioning." It all basically meant a dignitary would arrive with the proper warrants to collect Mike; he was basically an invalid, after all, they didn't have to send in anything fancy. But Mike didn't intend for that collection to take place, whether at the hands of a smart suited walking stiff or an entire team of SWAT agent walking stiffs.

He was getting out of here. He just had to get his strength up.

He didn't want to think about the pain. If those fairly mundane exercises had been enough to send him crawling back to bed, he shuddered to think of his escape. It could be as mundane as getting on the elevator and walking out in his hospital gown. Or the Feds were already downstairs, and he'd have to fight his way out or die trying. As before with the "collection," Mike had resolved to leave no matter what. If he was here, he wasn't useful to anything. Wasn't useful to John.

He smiled... carefully. No pain reared its ugly head, though. He smiled wider. It wasn't necessarily a happy smile, more of... well, regret, really. Irony. He'd never felt a driving purpose like this in two years, and now... It was a weird, heady feeling that he welcomed... not with open arms, per se, but with a vigorous greeting. He didn't feel _happy_ to have purpose again, to feel like a soldier and no longer a deserter. It made him feel like he was in a squad again, with Aaron, Max... Katie...

Here it'd be Derek Reese, Sarah Connor, _John Connor,_ and Cameron. One high-ranking lieutenant, the two progenitors of the resistance, and a Terminator.

_Well, when you put it like that, it's easy to feel out of your league._ But there were no leagues, not really. This felt appropriate. They'd welcome him if he arrived to fight. All he wanted now was purpose again, to fight for something, to... be _part_ of something. He'd spent so much time in this "past" as a nothing, a non-factor. Pleasing himself with stupidities, making conflicts out of thin air.

How strange it felt to love so strongly now. How strange it was to want to fight so vigorously now, for something so tangible. It was all there, though. It was there and he'd grab it.

And he would have grabbed it already if those fucking Feds hadn't arranged for his door to be locked. He'd gotten up a little after Ellison had left and tried the handle. No give (though he wouldn't have made it either way, given his lethargy.) The window was also a predictably suicidal option; it opened, but Mike was realistic enough to know he wouldn't manage the climb with his neck still in one piece. Therefore he was waiting for a doctor to come around and check his progress. They'd have keys, after all.

He'd been waiting for just that for... well, a while. Few minutes, give or take. He felt too restless to be cooped up here, he wanted out _now._

He kept dozing, which sort of worried him. He was conscious not really in the traditional sense; it was more of an immersed thing than that. He was viewing everything through mostly thoughts alone, not really in pure, physical recognition. If he looked around the room, eyes wide open, and then closed his eyes and laid there for two hours he probably wouldn't register any time change. He'd just _think_ one long, continuous thought. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, and he wanted it to leave him. It was easier _thought_ than done, though. Much easier.

--

The air drone regarded three year old Michael Oxferod, and three year old Michael Oxferod regarded the air drone.

The air drone was a small, baseball shaped device that was propelled by tiny rotating fans all over its construction. It was clunky looking and white-washed, with microscopic cameras covering every surface that wasn't used to keep it afloat. The air drone was used for surveillance, and it reported back to a master which wasn't human.

Michael Oxferod was a stout boy with golden blond hair. That hair would probably darken, his father suspected, although Mike really didn't know how such a thing was possible. The most he was knew of was scavenging with mommy, eating, and sleeping. He also helped mommy when mommy wanted it. And he played with his father occasionally, or John, if he wasn't busy. Mike was aware, mostly, of only the mundane qualities of life. Not this strange and exciting thing that watched him now. It was alien to him.

He felt frozen. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe, practically. His eyes were anchored to this device as though they were slaves of it.

Mike and the drone were on the third floor of an office building; it was a sickly black color on the outside and mostly unchanged on the inside. All the windows of every floor had shattered, leaving glassless holes. The building was completely irradiated past the third floor, and even this floor balked at the geiger counter; he couldn't stay up here long. Mike wasn't even sure why he'd gone up here; mommy said the building was picked clean already. He just wanted to... look around, though. Mommy wouldn't be happy with that.

But he found the drone. That was something, right? He didn't know what it was, but it looked so... words couldn't even _begin_ to describe it. The soldiers had lots of equipment like cars, guns, and other things, but this was completely different.

The drone bobbed and weaved in the air as it watched the little boy. Mike, slowly emerging from the shock of seeing it, giggled at the things erratic movements. It was alive, like a bird in one of the books! If he could catch it...

He looked down at his sack. It was completely empty, as though some higher force had expected Mike to go out this day and meet this drone. He raised the rucksack and poised it. Every muscle in his arms tensed, a weird feeling for him. The robot continued to rotate and make a soft _whirrr_ noise. It looked almost as if it was waiting.

And it was. When Mike lunged, the drone glided gracefully away from the hem of the sack. It said _"Obstruction avoided!"_ in a loud, scratchy voice. And then it continued to watch the boy, unmoving.

Mike's lip lolled out of his mouth as he looked at the drone. It was _smart_. Could it even be caught? If he caught it, would it get away somehow? That possibility frightened Mike, and a lot. He'd never felt a driving purpose like this in months. He felt like he'd _fail_ somehow if he didn't catch this thing. This thing was the sun, the moon, and all the stars all of a sudden. It was the most important thing in Michael's life.

_It was so neat looking!_

The drone hung there in the air. Mike poised the sack again and leaped up. The drone soared downwards, dodging past the falling rim of the sack, and buzzed against Mike's legs. The little boy squawked in dismay as it flew level with him again.

_"Obstruction avoided!"_

"C'mon..." Mike grunted. He took in a deep breath. No more games. He was getting this thing.

He lunged at the drone, not even stopping to poise the sack. The brown coarseness of the sack brushed against the drone as it flew by, safe... or at least it thought, for in a bit of spur-of-the-moment brilliance, Mike whipped the sack back towards the drone with one hand as he used his other to push the flying object within, enclosing the drone in the sack's depths.

Mike didn't think. His hands acted as if on their own free will, wrapping the hem of the sack into a tight knot. The drone immediately started to bounce around the inside of the rucksack, smashing once against Mike's enclosed hands. He yelled in pain, but kept his grip tight. There was no way he was letting it go now.

Oh jeez. _Oh jeez! _He got it. He didn't even know what this thing was, and he got it, he caught it! _It_ was something weird and cool, something he'd never seen before! All he knew about it was that it would impress the living hell out of his best friend, Allie. All he knew was that it would make his mother beam in pride. He approached this thing as animal. As nothing. He knew nothing of the dark, calculating intelligence that guided the drone's efforts.

Michael didn't know the meaning of the word "complacent." He did not stand to revel in his victory over the drone. Mommy taught him that quickness was godliness, and by the way Mike sprinted down the nearby stairs, Jesus was truly pleased with him today.

He went down the next flight of stairs, his breath coming in short, excited gasps. What was it in there? He'd never seen it before. Mommy would tell him. Or daddy. Maybe even John. He wanted to watch the drone for a long time, see what it could do. Just watch it. See-

A low, malevolent buzzing sound announced itself from within the sack. Mike barely had time to blink before a row of saw blades cut the rucksack to ribbons. The drone burst forth, tiny blades rotating swiftly at its sides. What remained of Mike's scavenging things lay broken in taters on the floor. Eyes wide as plates, the boy took a cautious step backwards.

"Hey!" Mike yelled, not knowing what else to do but chastise the rogue drone. It was gonna get away!

_"Obstruction surpassed," _the drone said. It hummed towards Mike, blades spinning busily.

Although Michael didn't stop to think about what those tiny blades could do to him if he stood there and let it happen, he _did_ know danger when he saw it. The thing was flying toward him at top speed. Mike stepped out of the way, expecting the thing to continue flying past. It didn't. Instead, barely turning, it switched directions and came at him. Catching a light glint from the spinning metal at its sides was enough to convince Mike that enough was enough. He turned and ran for his life, hurling sporadic insults and pleas at the drone as it pursued him. He could _feel_ the buzzing of the blades in his skin, and it wasn't even touching him; he kept tensing against his will, expecting the blades to touch in all their red-hot painfulness at any moment. It was _so loud. _It was gonna hit him. Mike was sure of it, even as he approached the last stairwell which would bring him down to the street. It was gonna hurt him!

And the drone could have done that. It could have killed Michael. Easily. But it didn't. Instead, as Mike ran down the stairs, the drone retracted its dual saw blades and quietly glided off.

Mike was barely able to breathe when he flew down the stairs and into the office building lobby. The furniture, old computers, and plants, although marked with decay and predictable disuse, were in remarkably good condition. A few refugees were lounging around on the old couches, a flaming barrel set in the middle of them. They appeared to be chatting with two soldiers. They all raised their heads as young Mike charged through, headed for the doors.

"Run!" he yelled.

One of the fugees, a bearded man of about twenty seven (although his wrinkles made him look more than twice that age) looked at his comrades in worry and spoke up. "What's wrong, Mikey?"

"Issa, uh..." Mike coughed suddenly and turned, realizing for the first time that he hadn't heard the drone now in over a minute. His heaving shoulders sagged suddenly in relief as he saw that it was gone. And now he felt tired.

"There a problem?" one of the soldiers said gruffly. His counterpart laughed.

One of the other refugees, one bearded and twenty-year old John Connor, stood up and walked on over to the kid. He was wearing that huge great coat he usually had, and a black beret (a souvenir from a local soldier) sat on top of his head. Mike remained where he was, faintly embarrassed now. But not _too_ embarrassed. That thing _was_ following him, it was just...

"What's the matter, Mike?" John said, kneeling down. The other fugees were respectfully silent, knowing John Connor had a way around children that was conspicuously missing in this brave new world. The soldiers continued speak in low tones with the refugees.

"Uh... uh, sumfin..." Mike pointed upstairs, unable to convey what had happened into an explanation John could understand.

The man seemed to get it, though. "Something scared you?"

Mike nodded feverishly. John clicked his tongue and stood up, offering his hand. "Show me."

Mike took his hand and led him on. John sent a look back toward his compatriots, indicating that they should stay put. The pair ascended the stairs and came back up into the gloom of the office building proper. "What was it, Mike?" John asked, silently examining the floor, which was bare of furniture or much of anything at all that hadn't been scavenged already. He looked down at the kid. "You can do it."

Mike raised his hands, balling them into fists. He brought them together and made a slight _whoosh_! sound. "It... uh... small?"

"Go on." John grinned.

"It... flew," Mike said. He stopped making the sound. Then he remembered something. "Oh!" He dashed away from Connor and went toward the other flight of stairs. John jogged alongside to keep up, silently removing his sidearm. He wasn't grinning anymore.

Mike knelt down next to the stairs and picked up what remained of his rucksack. He gave several pieces to John, hoping he'd understand. And he did. The thing was ripped to shreds."It did this?"

"Uh huh!"

"It didn't try to hurt you, did it?"

"Yeah!"

John hissed and dropped what he was holding. He gave another, more expert sweep of the room. Blasted furniture, blackened walls... not a thing. When he seemed to find nothing, he only looked more ill-at-ease than he had before. He cleared his throat. "Was it a birdie, Mikey?"

"Nuh uh."

John nodded. "Ok, go outside. If you see it again, come get me, alright? Don't let it hurt you, just come get me." He knelt down in front of Michael and ruffled his hair, giving the kid one of those odd looks he'd always give him. It seemed to border on... sadness, really and wonderment, with a hefty dosage of... regret? Mike didn't understand why. "You get it?"

"Yep," Michael said, smiling.

John patted the child on the shoulder. "Alright, go. You did good."

Mike trotted off. He felt... well, _shaken_ by the whole thing, but not dreadfully so. Just a bit scared. If John assured him that he did good, then he did good, and he had nothing to worry about.

"Those two chuckleheads gone?" John Connor asked as he returned a few minutes later to his group.

"They ran Bill in for questioning," said a man named Jethro. "But he'll be alright, I gather."

"He'd better be, or Atlas is gonna get himself a goddamned ass kicking," John said.

Jethro laughed as the group of men started off into the innards of the office building. "Thought you wanted to avoid an ass kicking, Connor."

John shook his head. "We're gathering those guns in here for a reason, Jet, and it's not to fuckin' negotiate. If Atlas doesn't do exactly as we tell him come next month, he'll be dead. That's all there is to it. If there's gonna be problems, I'm gonna unmake them, you'd better believe that."

Jethro grunted. "Guess so. Hey, yuh, what'd Mikey see?"

"A shape of things to come."

--

"GET THE FUCK DOWN!"

John dived to avoid the fusillade of gunfire, barely able to force the words out of his mouth as his torso struck the floor painfully. He kept yelling. Kept screaming. _Had_ to scream, to make himself heard over the shots. Someone else was screaming, too. Screaming in such bloodcurdling pain that John couldn't even assign a gender to the screamer. Bullets punched holes through the wireframe of the entrance hall to Benjamin's Place, shattered glasses on the bar top, struck human flesh without regard as to whether or not they were the intended targets.

They'd found him. Somehow. The cultists found him. Even here, even when he was _no where near the house, or... ANYTHING_ they CAME for him! To kill him! It was like nothing had changed. Humans, Terminators, what the fuck was the difference?

None of that mattered now. The only thing that drove John was terror and instinct. The instinct to flee, to run for his life. Nothing had changed. Why did he even run away from home to begin with? He got up on all fours and dashed across the dance club, seeking cover behind a pillar, table, or something, _anything_ that he could use. His mind operated in one stage only, targeting objectives and seeking them.

_"What the FUCK IS GOING ON?!" _Allison yelled.

Someone was screaming, "POLICE! CALL 911!"

"HELP!"

Chaos. An orgy of breaking glass and screaming patrons, of what patrons actually existed in the bar. Total pandemonium. How familiar this must seem to Allison. Cold chills raked across John's legs as he spurred them into movement, driving him toward the nearest cover. He felt like he was the only person moving with purpose, besides the two shooters. They seemed to be shooting at random now. John didn't know if they were targeting him in particular now or just shooting everyone they saw.

It was fucking terrifying, either way.

John collided against a table and hurriedly ducked underneath it. He bashed the table onto its side, into what he assumed to be the shooters line of sight and then huddled there, shivering, teeth chattering like mad. Jesus, he wanted his Beretta. So badly.

Ok. _Holy crap, _was his mind running on automatic. He didn't think of his inner monologues, or... anything, not Sammy, not Jesse, not _nothing._ None of it mattered. Ok. He'd wait until they stopped to reload, or shot something else. Then he'd run for the room section of the place, and he _knew_ there was a backdoor there, which led into an alley. He knew that, he could _escape_ from there, _ruuuun_ through there.

"Oh god," John whispered. Ok... ok... wait for it...

Someone was yelling something. It was a guy. He sounded gruff and angry. "THEY'RE COMING, THEY ARE, JUST-"

There was a loud _shu-chak_ sound of a shotgun being racked. Then an explosive sound of the shotgun firing. Then again. A deep rattling as the M4A1 carbine coughed fire. John didn't dare peek up to see what was happening. Bullets flew everywhere, exploding violently into the upholstery in droves, stitching crazed lines across the walls.

"BACK OUTSIDE!"

More firing, getting... distant? Oh, were they...? What the hell was happening?

Silence for a few seconds. The doors shut. A shelf of crystal glass collapsed behind the bar, all of them shattering in a crescendo of sound. Compared to the gunshots it was like a whisper.

The shotgun racked again, sending a discharged shell clattering to the floor. Footsteps. John shivered and laid his forehead against the underside of the table, unable to control his shaking. In a second or two he'd have to run. The hallway was right there. He'd make it. Sure. He could feel it in his heart, he'd make it...

John could hear a phone dialing. Footsteps. Light muttering.

Ok. Ok. Ok Just... rise up. Slowly. Just enough so that you can see what's out there. Stop shaking. Get ready to run.

You couldn't escape a feeling like this. It was like a turning wheel... no matter how hard you tried to get away, the same thing always rides on back up to you. It's unavoidable. There would always be this adrenaline in his life, this...

_Stop._

First he had to check. Make sure he was good to go, y'know? He slowly raised himself up and peeked.

Cameron Phillips stood over the overturned table. She extended her hand to him, shotgun held tightly in her right. She was wearing a coat, and a cartoon mask sat on top of her head, up past the scalp.

"Hello, John," she said, with a smile that was almost timid.

Oh, man.

--

Cameron just about spit in Hicks' face when they faced each other outside. Neither of them had even broken a sweat, and they'd just laid waste to an entire club. The street, though relentlessly busy most of the day, was practically empty now. Little wonder, seeing as how a bunch of those cars had crashed into each other in their mad attempts to escape the nearby gunfire. Their occupants had sensibly fled.

And the cops were gonna be here any minute, provided the Taylor and Robinson's teams didn't beat them to it. _Motherfucker._

"Are you for real?!" Cameron yelled. Oh, yeah. She wanted to finish things, alright. She'd be _happy_ to do it, just shoot that long-haired kid in the noggin. Wouldn't even bat an eye, Hicks reckoned.

But Hicks didn't want to die in the process, nor did he deign to glare at Cameron as he explained this fact. "That fucking machine was in there. The one who looks like you, she's protecting him."

She blinked, shoulders drooping. "Oh, hell. I'm sorry."

Hicks raised an eyebrow. His hands were working over-time, reloading the carbine without him even having to think about it. There was Fallujah again. "For what?"

"Yelling at you," Cameron said, sounding embarrassed... but not too embarrassed. Christ, he wished she wouldn't act like this. All creep-like, you know.

"Don't worry about it." Holy crap, did she get hung up. "Get the grenades out from the car, and the taser."

Cameron turned and ran for the car, holstering her pistol as she went. She looked tense. Combat high. She fucking blew that hobo's head off, in there, right before that shotgun started blasting. He wondered how she was feeling right then. If she really _was_ anything like the rest of those fanatics, then...

Hicks himself felt... detached. Sort of dull. Good. If he didn't feel, he wouldn't have to think when the bullets started flying. For now, though, he had to act fast. Think fast, too. He stabbed a couple of buttons on his cellphone and waited.

"Taylor," came a raspy voice on the other line, after a few seconds.

"Yeah, listen. Disregard what I said about coming in through the front. Forsythe scoped out a back entrance with an alley. Park your boys right there. Alright? Just look around for it."

"Affirmative," Taylor said. As usual he sounded completely monotone. It was an act, which made the whole charade all the more disturbing. "Have you seen him?"

Hicks glanced into the club. Trace amounts of gunpowder smoke billowed from within, escaping into the air outside. How many had they murdered in there? Hicks _saw_ the fucking kid, and they just... lit up everyone in sight. They were all dead anyway, right? Atomic dust in four years. What'd it matter if they died now or later?

"Yeah, that's why you need to cover the escape."

"We will. Is that all, Hicks?"

"Yeah."

There was a light click from the other end. Hicks closed the cellphone and shut his eyes tightly, wondering why he didn't tell Taylor about the machine that was still in the club.

Cameron was starting back over, four grenades in her hand and the taser in the other. Behind her, to the tune of about a hundred meters behind her, a large black van blockbusted past a street corner, took out a stop sign, and started to hightail it towards them with a high-pitched squealing of rubber on gravel. That'd be Robinson. A van filled with eager fanatics, all armed with every manner of death-dealing equipment. Even with his pet Terminator, Hicks thought grimly, that Connor was fucking toast.

How could this go wrong?

--

She was right there. Standing above him, staring right on down. He couldn't run. John had no delusions, no... _feelings_ that he could outrun her this time. She was right there, standing above him, staring right down, and he was in her power.

Was it a coincidence, that those guys attacked when she just happened to be here? Or had she orchestrated this to remove all measures of doubt? Used the old lady routine, to get a good gauge of how he was feeling, and then...

It would have been brilliant, if that was her plan. It would have worked flawlessly. _Better strategist than me, _John thought as he glared up at her.

Evidently, though... she thought otherwise. Why else would she be here? Because of her programming, or course. She had no stake in whether or not he'd actually live up to his fucking destiny. She was a robot. Go from point A to point B, deviate only when necessary. Simple.

God, he hated her. She was gonna capture him. He'd failed. No family. No real life. He hated her.

"Are you alright?"

He blinked, and did not answer. He felt surprised at how little he was thinking about this, how he wasn't panicking, negotiating, running... He felt clear. Failure. That was it. Where was a fucking knife? So he could slit his own fucking throat.

Cameron spoke again. "Are you shot, John?" She looked back out towards the door.

John shook his head. "No. What the fuck is happening?"

"They're here to kill you," Cameron said, eyes flitting back to him. As he laid there, sprawled. Defeated. "We have to go. Now."

John pushed himself up. "You're here to take me back."

"Of course." She didn't make any sudden moves, which was somewhat surprising.

"But..." He looked around the blasted club, taking in a shuddering breath. "Same old shit, right? It's like nothing's changed. I get in trouble, you come bail me out. You planned this."

She tilted her head. "What?"

Oh... _Jesus Christ. _He felt fucking blinded by anger. She was gonna treat him like this? Even when she'd won? "You bitch. Those guys, you..." He made some sort of listless gesture towards the door, suddenly overcome. It was like a sparked fuse that just gets itself doused. Why did he bother arguing? Why bother accusing? She'd come at the right time. She made all the right decisions, exploited every weakness he had. The old lady trick had been enough. Those guys were there to kill him; they _weren't_ being guided by Cameron. There was no larger conspiracy. There was no need for that.

He felt like dying. Maybe he should run out there.

"It was you all along," he said, voice barely rising above a whisper. Around him he could hear the crackle of flames. A table was on fire. People were speaking in low, panicky voices to each other. Otherwise, though? Quiet. Very quiet.

"Yes," Cameron said, removing the mask from the top of her head. "We shouldn't stay here, though, John. Don't make me drag you."

"Why didn't you just pick me up... Why bother with the disguise, what was the goddamn use?"

Cameron stared at him. "Because I knew you'd want to tell someone why you did all this, John. I wanted that someone to be me." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "And now I know."

"I hate you," he said.

Cameron tilted her head.

"You can't just... leave well enough alone, you keep coming. You never stop. Ever."

"Yes."

"You don't _care,_ Cameron. Not about me. The only thing you fucking care about is the chip in your head, telling you what to do."

Cameron's hand remained on his shoulder. It moved up to his neck, and he found himself laying his head down against it. "I do care, John. You've got to trust me on that."

"Then let me go."

"The building's surrounded."

"I don't care. Lemme go."

They stared at each other for a few seconds, silent.

She removed her hand.

"Are you going to run?"

John didn't respond. He ran for the door.

He could feel... _waves_ in her hand. She cared. He knew she did, in her warped, alien fashion. It was barely human, what she felt, but he knew it was there. It was a slave to her higher programming, but... _all week_, you couldn't fucking deny it. What they'd done together, what they'd consciously avoided, her pure dedication to him... She criticized him. Talked to him as an equal, mostly. She literally took bullets for him. They would _stand_ together at a fucking bus stop and he would kiss her on the cheek, and he didn't know why. She would bury two people and show him how much she'd learned. And she would stare at him. She loved him. Somehow. Maybe it wasn't even a human love, but it was hers. He didn't know if he could return something like that. It scared him.

What was he so afraid of? To be a leader, or to deal with the consequences of coming up to that? To weather the hardships? Was he afraid of that? Perhaps. She let him run. She was gambling. He knew that. Gambling on him just... stopping, going back.

What little strength he had left for that fantasy in his mind still drove him. A mother. A father. Siblings. A school that he'd stay in for more than two years. A job. A college. Real life problems. No murder. No machines.

He couldn't even visualize it in his head now. That was all there was to it. The pictures wouldn't come up. He saw Sarah. A John Doe grave for Kyle Reese. He saw Cameron. He felt nothing for Campo de Cahuenga. He had no career aspirations.

He passed the entrance hall and peeked out behind the corner. He couldn't see much beyond the glass door. There was a slight cough to his side.

_Oh, man. Sammy. _

He jumped over the counter, not even stopping to see if she was alright first. She was laying there, sprawled against the wall. He could see blood, but no wounds. It was like his mind refused to process it. Here was someone he'd felt something for. Kinship with this person. Two peas in a pod, right? What did it get her? What did it get him? Absolutely nothing.

"Sam? Sammy?" He prodded her shoulder.

Sammy blinked and looked at him. "What the hell are ya doin' heah?"

John ignored the question. "Ar-are you ok? I mean..."

"I can't walk," she said. "They hit my leg. I can't feel the bone."

She looked so calm.

John nodded. "Do you need anything?"

"I want you to run," she whispered. "They're after you, Johnny, I hear em'."

John breathed out and laid his head against the wood of the counter. "I-I'm just going out, ok? I'm gonna... It's not... worth it."

Sammy chuckled. "You gonna let them kill you?"

He didn't nod. Nothing.

"Why?"

"I'm dead anyway. I don't want anyone else in here... y'know, biting it because of me."

Sammy grabbed his arm. "Don't, John."

John looked at her. "You're gonna die if I run away. They're gonna kill everyone in here to get to me." He knew he was wrong, but he was looking for any old excuse. He was looking for a light switch. Flip it off, down, so he wouldn't see anymore. A bullet could do that.

"Don't worry," Sammy said, smiling. She looked so calm. Outside, John could hear screeching tires. "I don't care. You've still got somethin' to live for."

"No I don't."

"You can hear a pin drop in this place, Johnny," Sam said. John thought that was impossible, but he believed her. She moved her hand down to his own hand. "I don't know what's really goin' on with you, but I don't care. She's right. You gotta go with her."

John just stared at her.

"You were... I..." Sammy looked up, smiling. "I could see somethin'... I dunno how to explain it. You're important. More than me."

"No... You still..." John said, practically sobbing now.

"My parents are dead, John," Sam said. "I never told you. They couldn't answer the phone cause my house burned down. I'm nothin'. You still got somethin'. So run, alright? Don't kill yourself."

"You don't even understand."

"Yeah, but who gives a shit? Run, John. I don't wanna see you die."

He bent forward against her and kissed her. She wrapped her arm around him. She felt warm. Vibrant, even as she was wounded. What clarity she must have possessed. She had no stake in life. Only perspective. And she was right. Killing himself would do nothing, except...

They parted after a second. Sammy nodded. "Go with her. She likes you."

If she was willing to die for him, on feeling alone...

He felt like he didn't deserve that.

John blinked and nodded at her, barely able to breathe. "A-a-alright."

She patted him on the shoulder. "They'll be in soon. I can heah em'. Go." She kept smiling. Just smiling.

John stared at her. "Don't die."

"I'll try." She seemed uncommitted to the suggestion, though.

John turned away. "Good bye."

He felt her waving him on. "See ya, Johnny."

He hauled himself over the counter and made his way back towards Cameron Phillips, mind and heart ablaze.

--

When the elderly matron unlocked the hospital door and stepped through, she saw nothing but what she automatically assumed to be a sleeping teenager on the bed. She found herself nodding at this as she locked the door behind her; the boy had been shot in the spleen, and for some odd reason she never caught him while slumbering, which he desperately needed to regain his energy after suffering through such a wound.

She tip-toed over, merely deciding to check his temperature and breathing rate instead of the usual twenty questions routine. The boy had already been grilled by an impatient --though endlessly polite and urbane-- cop, and she was loathe to increase his discomfort any further.

He never would have admitted to such a thing, though. In the short time she'd spent with this boy, he'd never wanted for anything. If breakfast was offered he merely took it without questioning the contents. He never balked at needles. Nor did he ask for anything much in particular. He didn't moan, nor whine. His personality could be described best as glacial at times, but otherwise he was polite and sweet. He had a strong will, surely enough. A wound like the one inflicted upon him would have easily killed most people, either due to shrapnel or blood loss. And if they _did_ survive it, the suffering they'd have to endure would be painful indeed.

Michael just took it in stride, though. The matron respected that.

She reached over and laid a hand on his forehead. He looked restless. And-

Mike's eyes flashed open. He grabbed the matron's arm and pulled her astride him as he swiftly moved his right arm around her neck. She didn't even scream. She didn't breathe, either.

"Keys," he said.

The matron took in a deep breath, smothered as she was against Mike's chest. "Dear... what...?"

"You've got five seconds before I break your neck like a fucking twig, _KEYS."_

She was way ahead of him; Mike could hear the ring jangling in her hand. Prudent.

"Throw them onto the floor," he said, his voice without inflection.

Her free hand tossed the keys out behind her. A second passed and Mike blinked as he heard them clatter to the floor. Grunting, he used his right hand to push the matron further onto the bed as he slowly got up from it. He released her left hand from his own and stood up. He used his right to push her down as she attempted to sit up, and then he was off the bed completely, standing. The matron remained face down against the sheets. Mike glanced over to the key ring. Brass and copper gleamed, encircling the golden ring.

"What's on that?" He muttered, "The key ring."

"Your room. Other rooms. A-a broom closet. Michael, why-"

Mike took a loud step forward, silencing her. "You're gonna stay in here. I'm gonna lock you in. You understand? You can start banging in five minutes."

"You won't make it, Michael, please. You can't possibly make the trip downstairs. You're still too weak... dear..."

She trailed off as Mike stooped to collect the keys. Every step was a torture, just as the matron said. But he didn't care. Mike stared down at the assorted brass for a moment in confusion. "Which one?"

"B-25," she said.

Mike trotted over to the door and browsed through the tiny selection until he found the one she'd specified. The door knob clicked loudly as he inserted it and turned. _Least she's honest, _he thought.

"Is that cop out there?" That bastard pig could ruin everything.

"N-no, they... took him a-away."

Great. He clicked the doorknob to the left and pulled it open. He took a step forward, paused, and turned to the matron. "I'm sorry."

"I forgive you," she said at once, sounding shocked.

Mike went past the door and slammed it shut behind him. He locked it and pocketed the key ring. Walk, walk, walk. Get those kinks out. He didn't even know where the hell he was, much less the specifics of this place, but he walked.

A lot of green and white tiles. Floral design on the walls. Bright lights from the ceiling. A bunch of people in white and green were walking around, some with clipboards, others with stretchers. None of them challenged Mike as he moved past them, absently wincing with every other step he took as he was.

He walked for about five minutes, turning down hallways and avoiding stairwells for the time being. He didn't think he'd be able to negotiate stairwells too well. Not without sending waves of pain like volts of electricity up his spine, of course. It looked like he was on the second or third floor, given some of the windows he looked through as he passed.

After a bit he realized why no one was asking about him. A bunch of other patients in similar garb were also roaming the halls, albeit with helpers at their sides. Michael's purposeful stride seemed to belie the need, in the mind of the passer-by, that he did indeed need someone to help him walk. Would have been nice, actually, now that Mike thought about it.

"Hey," Mike said, clearing his throat at a passing nurse. The guy seemed to be about in his early twenties, with spectacles covering his eyes and a shock of platinum blond hair on his head. Mike immediately felt something catch in his throat as the guy's eyes flicked toward him; he wasn't half-bad looking, even...

_Oh, Jesus, knock it off! _

"Yep?" the guy said, looking faintly disturbed by this sudden intrusion into his routine.

"Yeah, uh..." Mike coughed. "T-,uh, t-there an elevator around here?"

The nurse nodded. "Yep, just came from there." He pointed back the way he'd been coming with his right arm. "Go left, keep going past the first set of halls, then go right. You can't miss it."

Michael grinned. "Thanks, buddy."

The nurse cocked an eyebrow. "Uh. Yep."

Off Mike went. Smacking himself. He could feel Aaron chastising him all over again, even if the guy was long dead. And not even born yet, technically. _Focus, focus. _

It was hard indeed to focus, though for mostly different reasons now; each step didn't just become torturous, it became... _exquisitely painful. _Ten dollar word did wonders to describe the feeling. The bones in his legs rattled and shook with every step, as though they wouldn't support the weight above them much longer. There were times, as he walked, when his vision just seemed to flare, or lose focus as pain threatened to overwhelm him. What he was feeling was possibly quite visible on his face but, as luck had it, he encountered no one else in his trip to the elevators. When he stepped on and stabbed the _1 _button, he collapsed against the soft cushioned wall, breathing each breath as though through a filter.

Some woman was talking. Michael blinked and looked around, dazed.

_"The bill is not expected to pass through foreseen Republican filibustering, though Democratic majority leader Harry Reid is reportedly optimistic."_

Oh. A radio. Mike looked down again and continued to try and breathe. Tears of pain and exhaustion slid unnoticed down his face.

Soon as he was out of here he'd break into some car, take a long doze, and then drive off. He'd be able to rest easier at the Connor home, anyhow.

Wasn't _he_ assuming so much, then? That they'd accept him? Of course they would, they had a Terminator and another soldier, like him. How could they refuse? He just had to get there first. One step at a time.

_"In breaking news, police are reporting a spate of gunfire on Pico Boulevard, downtown Los Angeles. The assailants were seen arriving in a green Toyota Corolla, and appeared to be shortly joined by others in a black van. According to, uh, preliminary reports the assailants are similar to the group of men and women who assaulted the North Hollywood police precinct during the evening last Wednesday. The wave of violence starting with gang warfare at the Checkers Hilton hotel on Tuesday appears to be continuing, despite statements made by the L.A. District Attorney last night. We'll keep you posted as the situation unfolds._

_"In other news, the search for the recently disappeared Republican lobbyist Jessica Peck continues even as..."_

Same men who... OH, Jesus, it was those fucking machine cultists.

That meant...

It could be a coincidence, Mike thought to himself. But the world was too fucking small for coincidences already, if Mike's encountering of the future leader of the human resistance had anything to say about _coincidences. _He had to see what the fuck was going on there. Pico Boulevard... Mike tapped into his mental map of L.A., long tailored after spending two years randomly wandering its streets in cars. That was in downtown... not too far from here. He'd make it in five minutes if he got a car, and if traffic wasn't too bad.

Had to move fast, then. Mike pushed himself up from the elevator wall to stand as the lift reached the first floor. The doors slid open.

Federal Agent Greta Simpson, walking amid a crowded lobby of patients and employees, gawked at Michael as he stepped out. Their eyes met instantaneously. She was wearing smart business clothes with a badge displayed prominently on her right breast. A piece of paper --a warrant-- was gripped in her hand.

"Son of a bitch," the woman said mildly. The warrant dropped from her hands as they darted for the sidearm holstered on her hip. "FBI, FREEZE!"

"Ohmaigod!" someone yelled. Michael steeled himself, didn't think, and charged forward. _OW OW OW OW OW-_

He slammed himself into the agent, sending the two of them sprawling to the floor. For Mike it was an intense, almost _ecstatic_ wave of pain as he collapsed onto the floor. Greta merely growled as she toppled, hands reaching out to shield her face as she fell. Michael screamed. It felt... _jeeeeessus._

Desensitize. Don't focus on the pain, as crippling as it may be. Mike blinked rapidly and scrambled on the floor towards the agent and he slugged her in the face. Greta howled in pain and gritted her teeth as they grappled. Mike's hands flew down to her thigh and struggled to remove the nine millimeter from its holster. Greta, not noticing this, delivered a hard, high-heeled kick to Mike's stomach.

"BIIITCH!" Mike yelled, in lieu of screaming again. She may as well have taken a knife to his stomach, it hurt so _fucking_ badly.

It didn't matter, though, cause he managed to secure the firearm in his hands. He jerked it out of the holster, thumbed the hammer, and fired a random shot into the air before anyone could react.

Dead silence. Greta ceased struggling and instead shied away from the teenager. She looked understandably shocked. And frightened. She was probably expecting to die, eh? Mike wondered if he shouldn't oblige her.

Instead, Mike just pulled himself up into a crouch, keeping his aim tight on Greta's head. No one moved. No one had had time to move since the struggle even began, and now they _definitely _didn't fucking move.

"Everyone calm down... and just don't move, alright?" Mike was bawling in pain pretty openly, but he didn't care.

"Son of a bitch," Greta said softly, laying on the floor as she was.

"Don't _fucking_ mess with me," Mike said. Some guy behind the counter was rapidly pushing a button. Panic alarm? Probably. He'd be long gone before anyone arrived, though.

"Not anymore, no," Greta said.

Mike didn't even respond. He was so far away now from this conflict that it wasn't even funny. Hot wire a car. Drive it. See what was happening with that gunfight. _Focus, focus, FOCUS. _

He lowered the pistol and ran out the door, leaving it to drift slowly to a close in his wake.

--

He was coming back. Cameron expected this. She didn't know why she expected it, but there it was all the same.

John looked... profound. That was the only definition Cameron could assign to it. That was technically a regression in her facial map scan's effectiveness, but she didn't care one bit. She felt... _relief._ He was coming back. She wouldn't question why. She didn't care why. John was coming back to her. That spoke volumes.

Talking to John under the guise of the old woman had been rather effective, if... completely unorthodox. She'd determined beforehand that apprehending him wasn't nearly enough. She had to know why he did these things, so she could help. His disjointed summary of the emotions he'd experienced during this exodus of his had been... well, informative. It told her that he was already feeling an undue amount of stress with his situation, which would be effective in convincing him to stay. He'd gone from convicted in his flight to somewhere residing in the middle ground. A simple push would tip him over the edge, back towards where he was supposed to be. Where he was _meant_ to be.

The recent turn of events would certainly help. But really, would it be because he saw no other option, or because he truly wished to come back? That was what worried Cameron now even more than the lurking assassins outside. What was the point if he had no stake?

Again she found herself wishing Sarah, or even Derek were here to help her. They could penetrate John, find out his personal nuances and exploit them far more effectively than she ever could. Her function was to guard John, not to...

But here she was, trying to be his psychologist and collector at the same time. She felt no indignation for it, but she knew she had to work above and beyond her abilities to make sure the status quo was restored. More than that, even. She'd already done things that were technically impossible for most units. She did not question them. Not yet.

She was simply glad that he was coming back. She could protect him. Talk with him. Be with him. Live _for_ him. It was what she wanted.

John walked over to her and stopped.

Cameron spoke first. "Are you going to come with me?"

"I dunno," John said.

"What will make you know?"

"Sell me."

Cameron tilted her head. "I do not want to make profit off of you, John." How could he even suggest that? She wouldn't do that.

"No, I mean... y'know. Sell me. Tell me why I shouldn't bother with this. I wanna hear it from you, I wanna... know I'm not making a fucking mistake."

Cameron nodded. "Walk with me, first."

John walked with her. They started towards the hallway.

"The truth, John, is that there's no freedom for you." She shook her head to emphasize this fact. "And I feel sorry for you because of that. You told me you want a real family, a real life. I ask this, John. What is the definition of real? You have a family, John. You have a life. No one would call it normal, but it is yours. And I sympathize with you. I understand that you desire understatement, non-importance, but that's impossible, and I think you've already guessed that. You have to live through it as best you can.

"I don't sympathize on the matter of you _wanting_ a real family, because you _do_ have one, John. I understand you and Sarah have disagreements. I understand they may hurt, but I also understand that it's mendable. You don't hold grudges for long. Neither does she. I don't say this because I understand it completely; it's simply what you've told me, both here and in the future."

John kept his eyes averted as she spoke. Kept tapping his fingers. She could see him turning, warming to the idea already. He looked pained because he knew it was true. He knew he'd acted petulant in trying to run. Humans had difficulty admitting to weakness or fault.

But not on the last count, apparently, for John looked back at her as soon as she stopped speaking. It was a glare. "That's why she smacks me around, right? Gives me the cold shoulder? Doesn't even say good bye? That's family, right?" He saw a perceived fault in her "lecture" and he was trying to use it to rid himself of the entire point. It was a useful tactic.

Cameron smirked. She had her own trump cards, of course. "You can talk to me about anything, John. I know you might be feeling down right now, but you can talk to me about it. I'm just a phone call away, I promise you. I won't ever say no."

She spoke with Sarah Connor's voice, words Cameron wished John could have waited to hear. "Your mother said that to me yesterday, about ten minutes after you kicked me off that bus. She was sorry for the way she acted toward you. She still cares for you, John. We _all_ still do, and you've forgotten that."

John stared at her, wide-eyed. "You're fucking lying."

"No. It's recorded on my cellphone, but it was taken by one of those men." She smirked. "I can get it back if you want."

"You..." he stopped. Physically stopped, too. They'd passed a few doorways, and Cameron could hear activity in the club proper. Ordinarily she'd have already gotten him sprinting by now, but... they had to get this out of the way. He had to be in this, full-speed. John was looking down. Realization dawning. Cameron tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. If he decided to "have a moment" right now, it'd be a very inopportune time indeed. "Jeez," he said weakly. "I've been acting like an asshole, haven't I?"

"It'll all be alright."

"Jesus Christ. I... Jesus, Cam, I'm so fucking scared of it. I'm afraid I'll screw up, and that'll be _it._ I don't think I have what it takes. That's..."

Cameron rubbed his shoulder, smiling gently. "That's what you have to learn, John. And you _will. _Soon."

He _was_ crying a bit, but he didn't seem to notice it. Neither did Cameron, really. He was exhausted more than anything else. She could tell that by his face alone, not having to rely on any complex scans. He sniffled absently. "Gonna take something _real_ big to turn me into a badass."

Cameron raised an eyebrow. "Being a badass is irrelevant to being a competent leader."

John held out a hand, keeping his head bowed. Cameron took it and gently rubbed the top of it with her thumb. He grabbed her hand and wrapped his arms around her as they stood there. He said nothing. Cameron decided nothing _had_ to be said and returned the embrace. John was shaking all over.

"What a day," he muttered.

"There are men with guns approaching, and I think we should go," Cameron said.

"I need to think about this." They parted.

"About what?" Why did she feel so... _confused_ all of a sudden? She was supposed to be the reassuring one here. She thought she'd done a good job of it, too. Being... touched by him, though... it felt overwhelming. Her sensors were positively abuzz with conflicting reports. Things that didn't make sense, statistics that contradicted one another. Weren't reconcilable.

On his own terms, John called what she was feeling love. Cameron didn't know anything about that.

Just more side effects? Possibly. And you know? She didn't mind it one bit.

John watched her for a moment before turning away. "About whether I'll come with you or not."

"You have to."

"No one's pointing a gun at my head except those guys out there. And as soon as we're safe, I'll tell you what I think." He paused for a beat. "You'll accept whatever I say, alright? Whatever my decision is, you'll respect it. Promise me."

"You know I can't do that, John."

John took in a breath. "Please... do it anyway."

He sent a look back to her. Cameron blinked. Quite delibritely. "Alright. I promise."

It _felt_ like a promise, too. Perhaps it would be, although she didn't expect him to resist any longer at this point.

He took in a deep breath. "A-alright, then. Need to get my backpack outta my room, shouldn't take a minute."

She nodded. John jogged forward and stopped in front of a door, hands working quickly to unlock it. And as he worked, Cameron found herself smiling at him. She didn't know why.

John must have noticed this, because he looked back at her and smiled himself.

_It's good to have you back, _Cameron thought.


	11. The Cultists

**Away**

Chapter Eleven: The Cultists

John's tongue hung out of his mouth in concentration as he worked on unlocking what used to be his residence at Benjamin's Place. For some stupid reason he'd left the key inside, and... it got _locked._ Probably Allison, doing rounds of the place. She kept copies of every key and... well, it was still _his_ fault. Ordinarily, if things had gone the way he'd expected this day to go, he would have found the door locked at like... eight o'clock, or something. He'd have been mildly annoyed. He would have asked Allison to unlock it. And then he'd flop down on his dusty bed, to stare at the ceiling for several hours, barely skirting the edge of sleepiness... and not quite getting there. _Or... _maybe things with Sammy the cashier girl would have gone well. Maybe he could have slept with that on his mind.

As it stood, John's fingers kept slipping away from the tiny paper clip lock-pick, because they were so sweaty. He kept staring in either direction down the hall, seeing Cameron down one end, and the promise of escape on the other. Past Cameron there was the club. Past that? Who knew? People with lots of guns, probably. They wanted John dead. So his previous plans of lounging around earning his keep were pretty much shot for the day.

As were his _original_ plans, which were to put a big ol' stop-sign in front of the destiny train. No leader here. No sir. Cameron wouldn't have it. Circumstances would not provide for it. And every moment made the promise of a new life seem more and more unrealistic, more of a pipe dream by every second. Here he knelt, picking the lock off a door, back in the same old routine. Fear. Apprehension. Purpose. The sound of gunfire acting as punctuation marks to every event.

He hated it. _He hated it._ But he was _damned_ if he wasn't comfortable with it.

"John..."

"Pistol and my laptop, c'mon," John said, not even looking back at Cameron. "I'm not leaving them here."

He could have sworn he heard a sigh from Cameron, but it was always difficult to tell with her. "This is taking too long."

"Just... bear with-" John's fingers slipped; the paper clip tumbled out of the lock. John cursed in frustration. "_Fuck it, _unless you have any fucking bright ide-"

_THWUMP!_

The door went crashing off its hinges, bounced once onto the floor of the dingy living quarters, and settled with slight groan. Dust flew up in all directions. John blinked as Cameron stepped aside, holding her hand up toward the room. _After you._

John grumbled and started his search. For some reason his backpack wasn't in plain sight. He was kind of schizo like that when he wanted to be, always moving shit for no reason.

"I'll keep a look out," Cameron said. John grunted. Behind the door and staring out into the hallway, he didn't notice her smiling like the chesire cat. He was sort of busy grinning himself. He missed moments like this... y'know, where everyone tries too hard and the Terminator-of-the-day's piercing logic just comes right in to solve shit.

"John, hurry up."

He opened his mouth to say "sure" or something like it as he was checking under his bed when two loud gunshots rang out from the club. His head bounced up in reaction to them and smashed against the steel underside of the frame. He strangled a yell of pain in his throat before it could come out; Cameron had to stay outside. Masking his pain was more important right now than having it tended to. If those assholes came and she was busy in here with his clumsiness...

It turned out his backpack _was_ under the bed, nestled right there in the middle. When the hell did he do _that?_

_You're liable enough as it is to go nuts, Johnny. Don't get hung up._ He grabbed the backpack by its strap and pulled it out, gingerly feeling the top of his head for blood. He felt a nasty bruise, but nothing else. Maybe Cameron wouldn't notice. They really had no more time to waste.

Those gunshots, though... were they executing people? Jesus, he hoped not. If they were, though... if there was any indication, then fuck it, he was gonna go out there and help. Screw running. Cameron would have no choice but to follow him.

_How easily you get back into the same old routine, indeed. _

Would he have ran an hour ago? Just left without so much as a fare-thee-well? Yeah, probably. He felt like... like less of a coward, now. It wasn't necessarily pleasant, too, for some reason. Responsibility seldom _is_ pleasant.

As soon as he stepped out of his room, he blinked as a man rounded the nearby corner and got his head blown to pieces by Cameron's shotgun.

--

Hicks kept his arms folded as two pistol shots echoed out from within the club. His eyes kept flicking towards the boulevard behind him. Cars occasionally came down the street, saw what was happening, and oftentimes panicked. They left in a hurry, usually. Hicks wasn't worried about them. He was worried about cops.

In all honesty, they had little to worry about from pistol toting L.A.P.D.; the cultists, arrayed on the sidewalk and awaiting orders, were armed to the teeth. Still, Hicks wanted to get this over with, because, like it or not, those pistol toting L.A.P.D. would be trouble if they got enough resources into the mix.

"Robinson..."

The black-suited-black-masked commando turned slightly to look at his superior. He wore a pair of goggles over his eyes, a black strap and contraption that went round his head. The eyes pieces were blood red.

Why did he need those?

"Yes, sir?"

_Sir. _A day ago, Hicks was lower tier than this asshole, but once the _metal man_ said something it was gospel.

"Call your recon back, I wanna finish this up soon." He paused for a second-

Robinson spoke first, though; "If he kills Connor, we won't have to go in at all. That would be the most efficient course of action."

Hicks coughed. _Goddamnit... _"Right, but there's a tiny problem with that-"

A loud roar sounding very much like the shotgun blast from earlier ripped through the air. Hicks felt the air in his words deflate, and he became silent. Robinson looked distantly annoyed; as if emotion could be transmitted through that ski mask and those... fucking goggles.

"Tiny problem?" Robinson echoed.

"There's a... a machine inside. It's... protecting Connor, I think." Hicks had to keep himself from licking his lips. Why give these people the luxury of watching his embarrassment?

Cameron Forsythe was silent. Hicks glanced at her for a split second as Robinson stood there and trembled. She looked like she wasn't even listening, standing by the door, waiting. When did she become so fucking eager?

"Yew-you mean a... T-Terminator?"

_Well, at least he feels one emotion; fear. How fucking convenient. _"Yeah. With them."

Robinson muttered something. It sounded very similar to the word "blasphemy," but you wouldn't find Roland Hicks betting any money on that supposition.

"We have to recover it," Robinson said. "A-and Connor, of course. Kill him."

Hicks gawked at the suited commando; "Are you fucking kidding me? If we're going in there that bitch is burning."

Robinson was shaking. Unlike his previous fear, he looked angry now. Hot enough to blow his top, actually. "We _cannot_ let it languish in their unclean hands, _sir._ Would you let an angel spend its time in the company of devils?"

"It's a gaw-" Hicks shuddered and shut himself up. If he badmouthed the fucking metal these guys were gonna ventilate him, superiority or no. Christ, even Cameron was glaring at him. Her expression was masked by her balaclava, but he could feel the bated... _waiting_, that aggression in her eyes. When did she become so...?

Robinson continued. "Furthermore, destroying it is out of the question, _sir._ Think of what Samuel would do to us for... for _killing_ one of his comrades."

Hicks raised his hands. "I get the fucking point, Robinson. Your guy in there is dead, by the way."

Robinson shrugged.

Hicks gulped. "Are ya'll ready?" His voice was so fucking hoarse. Jesus. Hoarse and... _terrified. _He could go over the same spiel in his mind. _These guys are whacks, yadda, yadda _yadda. But... even with all the enforced monotone in their speaking habits, the fact that they tried to emulate the Terminator so much... none of that resonated with Hicks as _scary._ He found it ridiculous.

Robinson blithely accepting the death of a fellow soldier was frightening. And it was all the more so because Hicks wasn't _really_ in command. These men loathed him. He was outsider, unbeliever. They would follow Robinson. Cameron, too, would follow Robinson.

And she, and they, would all die.

A loud string of "yessirs" rung out.

--

_Jesus, Jesus, JESUS. _

Michael's legs felt like they were on fire. Literally. Literally on fire. They felt like someone has touched a match to them. The bones burned with a zeal that left Mike drained of energy even as he hobbled towards a car in the hospital parking lot. Every bending of his joints sent a jolt of agony through his whole body. He was past tears, grunts of pain. He just had a blasted, depleted expression on his face. Only his eyes carried the determination, the purpose in his mind. He had to get there. See what was happening. Find John, the Connors.

Try not to collapse while getting there.

Ok. White car, right ahead. Closest one. He stumbled toward it, running down a green, sloping hill that lead down to the parking lot. _That_ was even more torturous than simple walking; it put more stress on his legs as he descended. God, he felt weak.

Now, even amid all of that pain, which sometimes was so overpowering that he felt deaf, even so close to the busy streets of Los Angeles, Mike was _still_ keen enough to hear the slow release of a safety hammer.

"HOSPITAL SECURITY, HOLD IT!"

Mike didn't turn around. He certainly didn't hold it, either. What he did was panic and took a long, blind, _bounding_ step forward. Into nothingness. He folded up like a cheap card table and collapsed down onto the green hill, tumbling down towards the asphalt below. Mike shut his eyes tightly and jerked himself to the side so that he was rolling instead of just _falling. _The pain was unmentionable. It all sort of accreted into some detached feeling now that he could put away in a box. Separate himself from it.

"Jesus!" the security guy yelled.

Mike hit the ground a moment later and was motionless.

He heard the sounds of nearby cars, people, in the distance, chatting. And the guy running down the hill toward him. The guy had a gun. Mike's hands twitched. Alright. Still good. Nothing got broken. Not even bruised. He started to moan.

"Stay right there, goddamnit! Drop your weapon if you can hear me!"

Mike didn't do shit. He kept his eyes shut. The security guard dropped down onto the parking lot asphalt a moment later and clambered toward the prostrate teenager. Mike felt hands, fumbling at first as they secured purchase on his arms, turn him to the side, so that he was facing the sky.

The gun in Mike's hand, by extension, faced the security guard's torso. Mike blinked four times in quick succession as he emptied four rounds into the man's chest. Bing bam boom bang. The guard didn't make any noise. He just... gurgled something up, which splattered an inch from Mike's head, and he crumpled to the ground.

The man had been an incandescent blob of light blue uniform and tan flesh, obscured mostly by the brightness of the sun as it hung in the sky. Mike didn't even turn to look at the guy's corpse as he got up to resume running. He didn't _want_ to look at him.

Michael reached the white sedan; it was sleek and pretty modern looking, with some fancy logo on the hood. It looked like there was leather on the seats. A nearby sign proclaimed "Reserved Parking." Mike used the still-smoking Glock to smash the window open. His hand poured into the car and fumbled with the unlocking mechanism of the door.

A loud report from a pistol shook Michael. His entire body went cold for a split second before the bullet punched through the hood of the sedan. His fingers gripped the lock and pulled it upward, eliciting a click from the door. He pulled it open and clambered inside. Through the windshield he saw none other than the FBI agent from before, standing on the hill, a pistol in her outstretched hand.

A little below Greta Simpson, the dead guard was just laying there. Mike could see more red on him than any other color.

Greta squeezed off another shot, which dented the roof. She wasn't fucking around anymore; he'd murdered that guy, after all. _Murder. _Jeez... that really sounds terrible when you put it like... _that. _

Mike ignored the agent and the bullets she sent his way, smashing the ignition lock with the butt of his pistol. And again. And again. It needed a good few more swings before the wiring was exposed. He bent his head forward --wincing-- and started to carefully twist the wires. The windshield blew out as two bullets smashed through it, bringing a whole sheet of safety glass down on Mike's head. Most of it was too big to cut into him, but it did give him a nasty start. That _stupid_ bitch wouldn't give up. She was firing off randomly now instead of taking short, accurate shots. Bullets just flew everywhere. If he tried to get up he'd probably become a goddamn pincushion of lead.

Ok... red wire, yellow, blue... some green. And white. Twist them in the right ways... you can do this... Squad driver from the age of ten. If you can hotwire a car like this under withering plasma attacks, you can get this fancy piece of crap in workin-

The car gave out a low rumble from its engines. Mike blinked and immediately pulled the transmission down to reverse. Pick up speed... A bullet ricocheted off the dashboard and nearly flew into Mike's face. He wished he had the fucking strength to shoot back at her, tumbling down the hill as she was. She was yelling something. It didn't matter. Michael pulled up into drive and flew out of the parking lot, the sedan sideswiping a few parked vehicles as it picked up speed. Greta quickly assumed the appearance of a tiny stick figure in Mike's rearview mirror, throwing her hands up in frustration before turning tail and running for a car herself. Mike took in a deep breath and kept his twitching eyes on the road.

He wanted to fall asleep so bad. Right there at the wheel. His whole body felt like absolute zero, nothingness. Responses were lethargic. The weird thing was, he felt absolutely no adrenaline in his body. Nothing. It was all gone, leaving him to press onward on pure will alone. If he just... had a moment of allowed rest, his body would eagerly seize on it, forcing him to sleep. He couldn't do that. _No. _Still in danger. Still had to get there, to that place on Pico Boulevard.

Been in worse, Mike. Much... much worse. Right?

"Yes," he said. So deal with it.

He absently adjusted the rearview mirror and continued to stare out at the road as it unfolded in front of him. Goddamn, but it hurt. It _all_ hurt.

--

They were walking outside, moving past some dumpster. The brightness of the sun seemed to flow right over the rooftops of the nearby buildings, whitewashing John's view of what was probably an incredibly blue sky. True enough to the lighting conditions, everything on the ground of this dingy back alley appeared _way_ too shiny. It was all really blinding, and John decided to focus on Cameron. She walked in stride with him, having discarded the brown coat she'd used for the old woman facade. Underneath was a myriad of bright red scars over what little skin he could see. He hadn't asked her about them yet.

And he didn't feel the need to, either. "So... what else did she say?"

"Who?"

John smirked. "Mom." The question was a bit of a double entendre; he wanted to know what _other_ apologies his mother had, and he wanted Cameron to elaborate. If she faltered, he'd know she was really lying after all. But he didn't expect that. Still...

"She said she'd let you spread your wings. She was worried about you, which was why she decided to act so harsh. She said she'd always find you."

"Always find you..." John repeated. And he nodded at that. "Well, I guess I can't blame you for impersonating me."

Cameron raised a single brow. "Who said I did?"

John chuckled. God, she could be so _perceptive_ at times, yet so naive at the same time. John, as always, didn't know whether to be frustrated with that novelty or endeared by it. "She would have known something was up if you just took a message, Cam. Don't worry, I wouldn't tell her."

Cameron's head seemed to bob as she nodded. Like one of those knowing _aha_ nods, the kind you'd make a clever joke. It was sort of wrong for the occasion, yet felt incredibly appropriate. John found himself giggling at that, and he refused to explain himself to Cameron.

They continued on. The mouth of the alley was about fifty meters ahead, with a bunch of trash cans and various refuse bestrewn along the way.

"Are you ok?"

John blinked. "Huh?"

"You look sick."

"I am?"

Cameron nodded patiently.

"Uh..." John shrugged. "Just that guy you wasted. I'm not a huge fan of watching people's heads explode." He gulped for a second, working another shrug in. "S'ok, really. You were just..."

"He was holding a weapon."

John shut his eyes. Which was a bad idea, because he nearly tripped over a piece of garbage, his foot slipping on something wet and slimy. Christ.

There was too much, _way_ too much going on right now. Have to decide what to do, have to get past these machine cultists (that was pretty much over with now, though,) have to try not to think about Sammy and everyone else in there. And here _he_ was, heading back towards destiny. He felt a bit... empty. Like this was wrong, somehow.

Maybe he just had to get used to it all over again.

"I know, I just don't like watching people get..." He sighed.

Cameron's face crinkled apologetically. "I'm sorry."

John managed a smile. She could no more kill in order to protect him than...

Well, that wasn't quite right. The T-800 had made a point of not killing as it protected him. Those were cops, though... what about these guys? Goddamnit, way too many technicalities. "It's fine. Really. He probably deserved it."

"'No one deserves to die. No one should have that kind of power.'" Cameron looked at him.

John kept walking, mulling over the quote. "Sounds about right. Who said it?"

"You."

John smiled and turned his head down, a bit embarrassed. "Well, that makes _me_ the world's biggest hypocrite."

"No. It was just something you acknowledged," Cameron said. "You were aware of your faults, and you accepted them."

John scratched his head absently, the weight of his backpack suddenly seeming to increase twofold. "Unlike now?"

"We'll figure that out soon, won't we?"

Jeez. Everything was getting so freaking serious all of a sudden-

They were about... maybe ten feet away from the end of the back alley when... god, it was like a fat toad of a monster, this _black_ van just suddenly screeched to a halt in front of the exit, blocking their escape. John gaped at it like he'd just witnessed the second coming; _holy christ, I didn't even hear it! _Cameron's eyes widened as she raised her shotgun, her previously vibrant expression going completely blank as targeting parameters and detailed descriptions of where humankind would go "ow" the most appeared in her vision.

John, on the other hand, lacked Cameron's machinelike precision and fumbled to pull the Beretta 9mm out of his jeans. It kept... tugging, tugging, _it was stuck._ Stuck on some _band of felt_ or SOMETHING, Jesus-

Cameron's shotgun spoke twice in quick succession, the individual blasts sounding like fucking artillery strikes when he was so close to it. The racking of the shotgun was even worse, a starkly industrial, hydraulic _slam-click _as another shell was pushed up to fire. The glass passenger window of the van shattered into oblivion; blood seemed to fountain from within, as though Cameron had struck a huge vein instead of a person. She fired once more as John struggled to free the pistol from his _fucking_ _pants_, goddamnit, it was _stuck. _He was cursing up a frenzy, like he couldn't stop himself from yelling.

There was a loud, high-pitched rattle from within the van as the driver --the passenger was fucking dead, no doubt about it-- began to fire at them with a MAC-10 machine pistol. Tiny explosions of dust and cordite began to sprout up like spring flowers --what a terrible metaphor-- around John and Cameron. Cameron immediately lowered her weapon and pushed herself in front of her charge, her body jerking spasmodically as bullets struck her. John screamed; the scene was far too much like the T-1000 emptying a goddamned nine millimeter into the Terminator as John was eclipsed by his frame. This was a bit more of a tight, almost intimate fit. She pushed him forward, scooting constantly ahead, keeping every inch of him covered with her own body. John gave a final pull to his Beretta, felt a rip in his jeans, and finally the pistol was free in his hand. He swung his firing arm back towards the shooter and squeezed off a bunch of shots. Every one of them probably flew into the sky, not even hitting, but it was _something _at least.

"Run," Cameron whispered, mouth hovering over his ear. John pushed away from her and began to sprint for the nearby dumpster. It was far, fucking far. Too far, he realized as the distance seemed to grow even as his bounding strides took him closer. He was sure he'd take a bullet to the back, or something. Just as he was beginning to... do what? Nothing. Return to the status quo. His life. He'd done nothing over the past few days, hadn't read books, hadn't trained, hadn't looked for anything important, _done nothing._ If he died now, he'd have been useless the whole time. All he'd done was run. Oh, god, what a fucking downer, huh?

Cameron kept firing off with her shotgun, but he could hear her keeping step behind him. Carefully behind him. If she wanted, she could outrun him easily, but as long as she was _there_ that was one less void of space between John Connor and the path of a flying bullet.

Just keep running. Don't stop, stop is death, don't lose breath, it could make you slow, slow... god, god, god... He could hear them yelling to each other, firing, there were _more_ guns, assault rifles, he was gonna DIE.

"CONNOR!"

"TERMINATE!"

"_Holy shit,_" John gasped under his breath. They wanted to kill him, they were _there_ for him. Like the T-1000, like Cromartie, like any fucking machine, they were there for one purpose; to kill him. Why? Why _them?_ How did they KNOW him? Weren't they human?! If _they knew_, then they knew about Judgment Day, then they _knew_ about the fucking destruction, the...

crazy. it was so fucking crazy.

Bullets freaking everywhere, he felt like he could _walk_ on them. They never hit. They never struck him down. They _always_ came terrifyingly close, enough to make his breath come in quick, petrified gasps.

And then he reached the dumpster, and he dove behind it. Cameron was right behind him, pumping the shotgun. She reached into one of her pockets and methodically began to draw out individual shells and load them into the weapon. John, on the other hand, collapsed against the steel, slapping a sweaty hand over his sweaty forehead. His bangs of hair were like tiny, wet ropes. Jesus.

"What were we talking about?" He laughed uproariously, sounding _insane_. Y'know what? Whatever. Who gave a shit anymore? He was going back. That was it. If they lived through this, John was gonna go back to hiding behind his hair as his mom took out the bad guys, and he... hacked into some system, or something. Get shot at occasionally. What'd it matter?

Cameron, matter-of-factly, said, "We were discussing you denying your faults." She cocked her head toward him, and, insanely enough, they both grinned at each other. John could hear stampeding feet running through the alley.

They both jumped up, weapons drawn, and laid into the approaching cultists with a fusillade of bullets. Cameron's shotgun racked continuously and fired. John's Beretta bucked in his hands as he aimed and fired. The approaching cultists --looked like seven or eight of them. How'd they fit in the van?-- seemed to have reflexes honed in... somewhere where quick reflexes are fucking honed, goddamnit, they returned fire immediately, washing the dumpster with fire. One of the cultists flew back, blood spiraling away from his corpse before it even settled on the ground. John couldn't tell if he'd done the guy in or Cameron. If _he _did, that would be the first guy, ever, that John had fucking killed, something he'd completely sworn not to do from the first day he understood the word "killing."

He couldn't tell, though. They both jerked down again. A bullet, almost comically, tumbled out of a wound in Cameron's forehead. The metal on her scalp was plainly visible.

"We gotta... Do something, Cam!"

Cameron was reloading again. "We need to get you someplace safe first."

"I can hide in the dumpster!"

Cameron shook her head. "They'll see you do it. We have to go back inside. Fortify a room."

"_Wooden walls?!_" John said, incredulous before her supposedly apt "logic."

"We'll have the element of surprise," Cameron said. "And this isn't open to debate. We're going back in. Now."

"What about the other way?!"

"Dead end. Get ready to run on three."

John shut his eyes tight and mechanically reloaded his pistol.

"One."

They were still running. Still coming. They sounded so close.

"Two."

The sun kept shining brilliantly, like a gargantuan "fuck you" to the violence below it.

"Three!"

John sprang up and ran for the door. He didn't turn to fire as he went. He just ran. Ran. RAN.

Cameron covered his flight. Jesus Christ, he loved the fucking shit outta her. Even when she was enigmatic, even when she wouldn't take shit, she was _there_ for him. No matter if he liked it or not, too.

One of the cultists screamed. Bullets traced John's path. He slammed himself into the steel doorway, pulled it open --several bullets immediately clanged against it-- and ran in.

Cameron joined him a few seconds later, shotgun pumping and roaring intermittently. She immediately turned to the door and pulled off the lock. Her hand twisted inside the tiny mechanism, eliciting a small _click! _

John took in a deep breath. "Ok. What now?"

Voices. From inside the club. Lots'a voices.

"We're surrounded," Cameron said unnecessarily. John had to restrain himself from hitting her.

--

_A little earlier_

Hicks prodded the cashier girl with the muzzle of his M4A1. Her head bounced to the side... slowly. Eyes, green and piercing under a starkly red head of hair, were blank and staring. She was dead. The only wound Hicks could find was a patch of gooey red on her knee. That would be enough to do it. There were something like seventeen billion veins, or something, in the human leg. You could lose a lot of blood easily from there.

She was dead, anyway. God. Did he do this, or Cameron? Cameron did the hobo; what remained of his head was slowly cooling on the wooden floor. Past the corpse was Robinson's team, fanning out into the club proper. Hicks could hear voices, low and frightened. Patrons. Goddamnit.

Hicks opened his mouth.

The club exploded in a cacophonous roar of gunfire. The patrons began to scream now. In pain. _What the fuck?! _

"WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, STOP!" Hicks yelled, his voice going hoarse and panic-stricken. They were... just-!

"_GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY CLUB!"_

Hicks gawked as a fat, past-middle aged woman burst out from underneath the bar, a long-barrel shotgun clutched in her hands. She had an expansive, wildly emotional face, and underneath that was her bulbous body, draped in a yellow jumper. Christ. It was so _funny_ looking; she was like a big ol' bumble bee with a shotgun.

She selected a target at random and fired. Hicks did nothing. In Iraq, even as a woman with a fucking burqa or something, he would have _ventilated_ her before she could attack his comrades. Now? Blackwater was murderers back then. These guys? Murderers too. He just hadn't known it back then.

God, what was happening to him?

One of Robinson's boys --maybe even Robinson-- took the _fucking well-aimed_ bullet in his head. Said head exploded into a fine rest mist. Body formerly attached to head crumpled like a puppet emancipated from its strings.

_"NOT AGAIN, YA AIN'T DOIN' IT AGAIN-"_

Cameron Forsythe, a little to Hicks' right, calmly shot the woman in the chest. The shotgun tumbled from her grasp and her hands went to the wound. She had a look of utter bafflement on her face, all confusion and no pain. She even tilted her head.

Then Robinson's team ripped her to pieces, flames spitting from their rifles. And then they turned and continued to execute whoever remained inside.

"STAWP!" Hicks yelled, running forward to Robinson. Behind him, Cameron was walking forward to join the other soldiers.

"Robinson!"

Robinson raised his hand to his compatriots. They quit firing and turned, all looking annoyed. They refused to regard their recently slain comrade. If only that bitch had had a grenade. "Yes?" Robinson said, all sweet-like.

Hicks raised his hands. Outside, in the distance, gunfire rattled. Taylor's team. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Silencing the witnesses. Any one of them could be Connor." One of the witnesses began to pathetically cry out for help.

"_Fuck_ that, you murdering sonbitch," Hicks said. "Let them go. Check to see if they're Connor, but I fucking swear, you can't..." His hands grappled with air.

Robinson shrugged. "If you insist." He raised his voice. "Now hear this! All of you, leave at once!"

Only two people appeared. Both male. Both fairly young. They approached slowly.

"You heard the man, GET OUT!" Hicks yelled.

They ran now, dodging past the cultists and dashing out the door. People were still groaning, in pain, _were_ _dying_ for pity's sake. Jesus Christ.

"Sir," one of the cultists said, addressing Robinson. "I hear gunfire. We should move."

"Agreed."

They began to jog toward the back entrance.

Hicks stood where he was, speechless. Cameron was walking past.

"You..." he said.

Cameron turned. "What?"

"Let's get outta here." Dear God...

Cameron tilted her head. He imagined a glare behind that ski mask of hers. "They're all dead anyway. Why do you care, Hicks?"

Hicks ripped his balaclava off and took a few long steps toward her. Just as he wanted, she shrunk back from his advances, but she wasn't fucking quick enough. He grabbed her by the shoulders, dropped his assault rifle and stared at her widened blue eyes. "What... are you doing?"

"Let me go," Cameron said, voice barely rising above a whisper.

"Not until we talk, Cameron. What are you doing? You're... you're, god, you're with them, aren't you? I can fucking see it."

Cameron leaned at him. "They're lunatics."

"No, _you're_ the fucking lunatic, Cameron! You dance to their fucking tune just like any of em'."

"_Hicks!"_ Robinson yelled.

There was a roaring blast of thunder, followed by a swift reprisal of assault rifles chattering. Hicks didn't move. Cameron just sort of stared at him, like he was a bug on a plate. "I'm avenging my father. We're gonna kill him. We'll both be happy. _Simple_, like you fucking said, Hicks. Are you pussying out?"

"Not the only fucking way you're avenging him, you bitch. What the fuck were you doing for them?"

"_Nothing, _it was all dad!"

"HICKS!"

"_Fall back!"_ Hicks yelled. He turned back to Cameron. "Now... you listen to me, Cameron. We're _leaving_ as soon as this is over with. Do you get me?"

She kept staring. Hicks shook her with his gripped hands, jerking her body back and forth. "YOU GET ME?!"

"Sure," she said cooly. Hicks gasped and released her. All going wrong. What was he doing here? _He_ doing here? This was all wrong, he wasn't a murderer. Not anymore. He could barely remember what his fucking wife looked like.

Ohhh god. The soldiers were running back. They kept staring back towards where they'd fled. "We found them!"

"Great," Hicks said, stooping to pick up his M4A1. "You see Taylor's team?"

Robinson took in a few deep breaths. "Been in contact with them. They're tearing down a door Connor locked. If we coordinate we can flank them while Taylor attacks head-on, and then we'll be able to terminate-"

Hicks interrupted him with a single raised fist. "You tell them about the Terminator?"

Robinson shook his head. "I'll have to do that."

"Don't bother. I'm sure they already know. We're waiting here."

--

**Perform self diagnostic.**

"This room?" John asked.

They stepped inside, Cameron taking one sweeping glance of the place. The bed was conspicuous enough. Its constitution indicated that bullets would have a hard time penetrating. She pointed toward it. "Yes. Get under there and wait for me. I'm going to deal with our problem."

John frowned at her, absently rubbing his eyes. Facial map scan indicated he was suffering from a fairly low level of trauma after fleeing from the cultists. His stance seemed more shaken, yet tinged with determination. Since the gun battle he hadn't attempted any "real" conversation with her, as they had throughout the encounter. "Cam, I dunno if you can take them all by yourself."

**Perform self diagnostic. Alert. System has not been examined in several hours. Please correct. **

"I can, and I will," Cameron said simply. She decided to put him at ease with another question. "Have you thought about your decision?"

"Yeah, actually. I have."

Cameron's HUD glowed as she tried to glean the expected response from his expression, body language, _anything. _But no, he looked... neutral. Damn. "What is it, John?" She smiled.

John reached over to her and stroked her cheek with the backside of his right hand. He beamed at her. "I said I'd tell you later. Now... y'know, go get em'."

"Please?"

John blinked. "I'm... I don't have any other choice, Cam. I'll go with you. This whole thing was... a big mistake."

She'd be with him again. And he wouldn't run. They could talk. She could learn. Fulfill her purpose again! She felt... happy. "Are you sure?"

"I'm never fuckin' sure. I dunno. Just..." He sighed and started to crouch down so that he could slide himself under the bed.

**ALERT. Self diagnostics are a necessity for flawless performance. Examine unit system immediately. **

"Alright. Be careful."

John looked up at her. "You too."

Cameron racked her shotgun and quietly opened the door. Several black suited men were walking past, sweeping the area with their assault guns raised. Cameron's shotgun hand flew up as her combat subroutines were downloaded up to her CPU, strong-arming and removing the lesser protocols from priority. She felt absolutely no emotion, whether fake or genuine. All she knew, all she understood, was the art of killing as efficiently as possible.

**Five targets. Weapon inventory; 2x Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun, 1x Colt M4A1 Carbine w/ Aimpoint close-combat modification, 1x Mossburg 590 combat shotgun w/ bayonet attachment. 1x Colt 1911 Pistol w/ tactical aimpoint modification. **

Mossburg represented the greatest threat; his shotgun could effectively blow her back with every shot fired, and so he had to be taken out first. Cameron swung her shotgun out toward Mossburg, as he turned to face her, and fired.

**Buckshot discharged. Wide-spread #-22 attach/**

Damnit. Mossburg's head was blown clear off of his neck, the generous amounts of kevlar and armor on his torso doing nothing to protect his vulnerable head. Cameron brought the shotgun back around and pumped it for the next shot. Heckler, Koch, Colt, and 1911 turned in unison, looking decidedly unconcerned with the demise of their compatriot. Cameron frowned at this. That meant their cohesion would be difficult to disrupt.

They opened up on her. At this range, they couldn't not miss. A multitude of flying lead pierced into Cameron's body, punching through flesh and bouncing off her metallic exterior. As they laid into her, as she racked the shotgun, she absently thought to herself that she wouldn't be able to go out in public much for the next two days.

She raised the shotgun, aiming towards Colt.

**Negative. **

She swung her aim toward Heckler. What the hell?

**Target represents the greatest threat. **

No it doesn't.

**Affirmative. Fire.**

She fired, blinking rapidly as the encased buckshot shell expanded into many shells and pierced Heckler's armor. Blood streamed from the back of his torso, painting the wall behind him with ichor. He descended with a low grunt, MP5 still roaring.

She racked the shotgun.

"SHE'S A MACHINE!"

"RUN!"

"AHH!"

Colt, 1911, and Koch panicked. They started to flee back from whence they'd came, firing rapidly and inaccurately as they went. Cameron blasted 1911's back as he ran. He stumbled, but kept running; only a few of the shells hit him, and most were probably denied entry by the kevlar.

"HICKS!" someone yelled distantly. Cameron ignored the voice and dropped the shotgun. She powered up her leg hydraulic enhancers and started to sprint after the fleeing cultists, heading straight for 1911. They were so slow. She cleared the distance between herself and them in absolutely no time at all.

"WAH-WAIT!" 1911 yelled, reaching his hands out to grasp at his fellows as they outpaced him. He was sweating quite profusely; terror, probably an alien emotion to him given his status as a machine-obsessed fanatic, was entirely visible in every possible way. His breath came in heaving gasps, his arms shook, legs shook, he kept shivering. Cameron reached over with one hand and pulled him back into her other hand, which punched straight through his torso. Her vise-like hand tore through skin and bone and clenched in at the man's heart. She squeezed. Felt the organ explode in her hand. The cultist vomited up blood and toppled, torso sliding away from Cameron's now bright red arm. She stared up again and continued her pursuit.

Colt and Koch died very much the same way 1911 had, having their vital organs destroyed or pulled from their bodies. Efficient. Clean kills. Well, messy, anyway, but that was besides the point. The team had been decimated.

**PERFORM SELF DIAGNOSTIC IMMEDIATELY OR SUFFER THE RISK OF CATASTROPHIC SHUTDOWN. **

No time. No time at all for such things. She had to get John out of there.

--

John barely heard anything after the immediate exchange of gunshots. There was some yelling. A few bullets pierced the door and flew into the room, but none touched him.

Those guys didn't stand a chance. It felt like he was playing God, all of a sudden, even after this whole pathetic episode of his life. How easily he fell back into it. And really... should he? Should he _let_ himself fall back into it? Was it _right?_ He had nothing else. This was what would happen if he ran, John thought, as he heard scampering footsteps running away from the room.

He would go someplace. Feel really bad. Meet people. They would make an impression on him. Maybe he'd do something stupid. They would die. He would possibly die. Cameron would find him eventually. It'd happened _twice_ now, and God, what was the point in hoping? He had... Sarah, right? She was mom. God, he hadn't known. Hadn't known she'd apologized, if _only_ he knew that... He had this life. It was his. He was gonna have to deal with it as best he could.

You know what would give him a great life? Stopping Skynet. Then he could live however the fuck he wanted. Had to focus on that. It was the only bulwark between him and... that. That destiny. General Connor.

Here's hoping it works!

He must have dozed off, or something, or at least gotten too lost in thought to perceive the amount of time that'd passed. In no time at all Cameron was at the door again, opening it.

She looked like hell. Blood matted her entire torso, parts of her face. "Cam!"

"They're dead, we can g-g-go."

John slid himself out from under the bed, standing up. He hefted his backpack and blinked at Cameron. "Are you alright?"

She looked at him, tilting her head. And again. And again. Tilt, tilt, back and forth. John's mouth slid open as he stared at her. "Cameron, what...?"

"We have to go."

"Whoa, whoa, hold on. If they're dead, we can see what's wrong with you."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

John raised his hands at her, as if he was speaking to a young child. "Cam, you keep jerking around, and I've _never_ heard you stutter before. What the hell is going on with you?"

Cameron smiled. And then frowned. Then there was a goofy expression on her face. "I-I-I-I'm fine."

John stood there for a moment, at a loss of words, all of a sudden. Ok, John, think, think. Holy crap, was this happening? Yes. Just think. Think. "Uhh, um... when was... the last time you've, I dunno, done maintenance?"

"GET IN THERE, GO!"

They both jerked and looked out into the hall. Stampeding feet. Cameron hefted the shotgun in her hand, bringing it up to her shoulder. "Run, John. I'll take care of them. G-g-g-get to the van."

John took a few running steps toward the door. "C-Cam, wha-"

She glared at him. "I can still shoot, John. We'll talk later. GO!"

Holy crap. "Cam!"

She shoved him out the door and turned his body so that it faced the hallway exit. The hallway was bestrewn with corpses. She gave him another push. "C-Cam, wait, I can help-"

"N-nonono you can't. I'll be alright, John. You must run."

Jesus, god... John turned to her and gave her a quick hug. "If you fucking fold up and shut down, I'm gonna kill you."

"That's unlikely," she said.

"Fuck you."

"Run."

He ran. God help him, and _her,_ he ran.

--

Hicks led the charge as they passed through the corridor, the cultists at his flanks, weapons raised and ready to spew death. He could hear them. The bated breath. The barely concealed enthusiasm. So much like _that_ place. Cultists could be found anywhere, y'know? They're as common as wild flowers, whether they worship machines or sexual fetishes or plain old killing. The world was full of them.

Hicks wanted to die.

They turned the corner. The machine was standing there, amid the broken corpses of her recently slain kills. The smell of cordite and blood and shit filled the air. Smoke, everywhere. There was a shotgun in her hand. The cultists opened up immediately, lighting up the corridor with brilliant flashes. Cameron's pistol roared. Hicks raised his assault rifle and started to scream out obscenities and machismo bullshit. He fired along with the rest of them, venting all of his frustrations on this protector, this doppelganger. Cameron made low growling sounds. The cultists were deathly quiet.

The Terminator took a few lumbering, ponderous steps forward --she looked like shit. Kept jerking every which way. Was she malfunctioning?-- and fired.

A hole big enough to stick a lamp shade through appeared in Robinson's chest. He dropped like a light. Why didn't she shoot Hicks?

Goddamnit, they kept firing anyway, jerking her back ever constantly. The shotgun seemed to fly out of her hands as bullets penetrated and forced it away. Hicks dipped his hand down into his pocket to reload. He took his time as the machine approached. _Kill me. Please. _He was gonna go out shooting his brains out, but he wanted to fucking die. He was no murderer. He was a nothing. So was Cameron. She just hadn't seen it yet.

He felt more happy with that bitches death than ever before. How did this happen? Because he was a nothing. He wanted to avenge someone he was better off without. He acted like a fool.

And he deserved to die like one.

--

The bullets washed over her like a water fall. They weren't just annoyances. They kept her from advancing. Everything was so obscured now. Systems were suddenly deaf to her commands. She hadn't... she hadn't done...

**Performing mandatory self diagnostic. Remember, unit; procrastination behooves only the resistance.**

NO!

She stopped moving as her system underwent a quick reboot so her system diagnostics could be read out to her and her CPU. Within moments she was sprawled out on the floor, unmoving.

"Holy shit!"

"Get the fucking taser!"

"Will it even work?!"

"Who gives a shit, go!"

**Diagnostic complete, ERROR: **

**Combat chassis integrity: 55 percent. Leg motivators damaged.**

**CPU functionality: 50 percent. Emotional index overpowering other systems. REQUIRE IMMEDIATE SHUTDOWN AND REBOOT.**

**Targeting systems: 95 percent**

**Logic core: 40 percent. Tied to targeting functionality versus desired subjects of Termination. REQUIRE IMMEDIATE SHUTDOWN AND REBOOT.**

**Combat motivators: 100 percent. **

**Diagnosis: Logic and CPU functionality has degraded due to lack of regular maintenance and constant subjection to emotional stimulus. Unit must shut down and allow mandatory maintenance to be performed so as to remain combat effective. Prime subject has already fled the danger zone; threat is negligible. **

JOHN, NO!

**Submit. Ten seconds to comply with order before mandatory shutdown. **

She couldn't be captured! Or destroyed, they would FIND him if she wasn't there to KILL them as they ARRIVED to KILL him

The reboot was done. She could move. Some person was standing in front of her. She kicked her legs out and brought the cultist down next to her, toppling and screaming. He hadn't even reached the floor when Cameron's hand lashed out and snapped his neck. If she could kill them all in ten seconds then the danger would be over, or at least for now!

"She's still active!"

"Get away!"

She sprang up and lunged at the other nearby cultist. The man was scrambling away on all fours; he'd been crouching over her as well. Trying to KILL her. She landed on his back knees first and snapped his spinal column under her weight.

**Five seconds. CyberDyne Systems (tech-com) reminds unit that not consenting to shutdown may cause problems in the future. **

Had to buy him time! Kill them all!

The other cultists were falling back, not even firing their weapons. Cameron pushed herself off the dead cultist and sprinted toward the nearest man. He was the only one without a balaclava on.

The man did nothing. One of the cultists, a woman, screamed for him to run.

Cameron's hand dashed forward, ripped the Colt M4A1 out of his hands, and smashed it to pieces like a twig. Her hand seemed to barely move as it flew up to grab the man by the throat.

"Do it," he said. He smiled broadly. Anticipatory. Cameron was only too happy to oblige, and quickly.

She squeez-

There was a low humming sound, barely audible to the man she was attempting to kill.

To Cameron it was like the roar of an ocean. Everything went black.

--

The machine's eyes flashed with blue for a moment. Then they just stared. Hicks stiffened as he felt the Terminator's grip on his throat go slack. He pulled himself back slightly, blinking randomly.

She just stood there. Her arm fell back in line with the rest of her body, and she just stood there.

"What the fuck?"

"She shut down," Cameron said.

Hicks glared at her. The two remaining fanatics, much like the Terminator, stood there.

Hicks hissed. "Take her fucking chip out. And destroy it."

Cameron gawked at him. "_What?!_"

"You heard me, Cameron."

One of the cultists spoke up. "Why does she look just like you?"

Hicks ignored the man. Cameron did, too. "Hicks, you don't know what the fuck you're doing. We are _not_ taking her out."

He stared at her. "Cam-"

She raised a quick hand. There was a fucking strong smell in the air, and Hicks felt faintly ridiculous. God, he'd wanted that thing to kill him so badly. "Shut up." She turned to the two remaining cultists. "Process her, take her out to the front. Steal another car."

"What about Connor?" They moved forward to grab the machine. Hicks stood there, slack-jawed. She... was ordering them... around.

Cameron looked at Hicks. "He'll do it." She held out her pistol.

--

John was about halfway through the back alley, rapidly approaching the van, when he suddenly felt too out of breath to continue.

Out of breath, and scared out of his wits. Cameron had been... it was unreal. He'd never seen her act like that. She was having... problems, and...

He took in a deep breath and looked back to where he'd been running from. She was supposed to fucking mess those guys up. She'd messed the other team up, and that took less than two minutes. Where the fuck was she?

Jesus, the way she'd... jerked around, the way she stuttered, it was like watching a computer malfunction and get ready to keel over and shut down. What the hell could make her act like that? Did the guys in the van do something to her, or...? What about _him._ She'd spent hours upon hours searching for him, trying everything, weathering his flight from her even as she tried to... _love_ him. Because... y'know, _she did. _How badly did that hurt her? Like, inside? Could things like that even have an effect on her systems?

He stood there, sweating from every pore in his goddamned body. The chill of February wind made it seem like a sheet of ice had been draped over him. He shivered... not just due to the fucking cold, but the _pit feeling_ in his stomach that something had gone terribly wrong. Cameron was... she was _there_ to protect him, she wouldn't just leave him alone for two minutes like that.

God, what fucking irony. Yesterday he would have done anything to get away from her. And now he would give everything to have her back. She _loved_ him, he _loved_ her, (in radically different fashions, but honestly...) even as he petulantly ran away everything she kept coming for him. She was _programmed_ for that, but she did it with... with _him_ in mind, she didn't just _collect_ him, she heard him out! She _explained_ things to him! She treated him like a person, not as a fucking objective! That moment of clarity, as she laid everything done, reassured him...

It felt weird. It felt wonderful. He loved her for it. Trusted her. And... if he couldn't show the same goddamned respect for her, to protect her, to help her when she needed it, what the_ hell good was he?!_

--

Epiphanies are for sissies.

Sarah told him that. Why do you feel so bad about those guys out there, Hicks?

Well, Sarah, I don't like shooting people for no reason. Ain't there enough casualties in this here war?

Nah, Hicks. You knew Jerko. Saw him around. You _saw_ that guy, and now he's dead. Strung up and set on fire. These people are animals. We all animals. But we're stronger animals, Hicks. Strong eat the weak.

You sound like a fucking butch girl when you say that.

If you call me a butch I'll kick your fucking ass, Hicks. Now cover me. Shoot any goddamned Hajji you see.

I don't think they're animals...

You havin' an epiphany all of a sudden, Hicks?

No.

Good, because epiphanies are for sissies.

Neither one of them came out of that too well.

--

Was he having an epiphany? Did he really want to kill this boy? Hicks glided down the corridor, Beretta clutched in his hands. He'd use it shortly. Use it to kill some fifteen year old who was going to become the ruler of the world. The only hope against the machines. They were all dead, really. The cultists? They were fucking nuts if they thought they'd be spared. The machines cared nothing for them. They just wanted to use a bunch of pliable little puppets... to bring about their nice little apocalypse.

Epiphanies are for sissies. Yesterday he said to Cameron that he cared nothing about anything. That all he had in him was revenge. Kill the Connors. Avenge his wife.

It was so nice to have a cause. When you got nothing? Having a cause gives you purpose. It fills that pathetic void you call your life. Whether right or wrong. Epiphanies are for sissies. Real men stick to their guns.

It was also nice to have a brain to think with. To reason with. Rational, you know. There was a very persuasive element of Hicks, a rational part of him, a scared part of him, that did _not_ want to kill the leader of the human race. No matter what he'd done. No matter if he'd guided the hand of the bullet that killed his wife.

Hicks wanted to find John. Kill him, if possible. Or have John kill _him. _Either would work.

--

The sound of distant sirens was getting pretty loud. John quickened his pace, keeping his Beretta outstretched. Had to hurry. Cameron was in there somewhere. He passed through the back door and took a look around. She'd been... where was everyone? The hallway was empty.

A man stepped out from behind the opened door. He had a gun in his hand. John saw him instantly and aimed.

--

They laid into each other with their pistols, stretching their arms out and aiming for all they were worth.

It was too close, Hicks realized, eyes widening. Their guns went fucking _past_ each other's heads. Hicks stared at the boy. He was not a bad height. Shorter than Hicks. His hair came down in wet strands across his head, like one of those emo kids you saw in the deli or something. He didn't look like any emo kid past that. He had a certain... mute determination in his eyes, which was belied by his trembling, frightened lips.

Hicks swung his pistol around the smack John in the face.

--

John ducked under the flying pistol, wincing as it made a whistling noise above his head. He growled and slammed his arm upward, sending the 9mm flying out of the cultists hand. Unfortunately for John, ducking to avoid the blow in the first place had sent his gun arm up at a peculiar angle, making it easy for Hicks to smack his own pistol away. And he did.

They both stood weaponless.

--

Hicks charged forward and smashed his fist into John's face. His softness was a bit of a misperception, too; Hicks groaned as pain ripped up through his arm after delivering the punch. The teenager cried out in pain, and he brought both of his hands up and wrapped them round Hicks' arm. He pulled the soldier forward and, using his momentum against him, let him fly into the opposite wall. Hicks stumbled and threw his hands out ahead of him as he fell forward and hit the wooden floor. His vision went white.

--

"Sonbitch!"

John took a moment to feel his face. There was a bit of a bruise under his left cheekbone, but it felt alright, otherwise. Just a bit annoying. He kept blinking rapidly. His vision had gotten a bit blurred under the force of that punch.

After a moment, he ran forward and delivered a kick into the cultists' side. The kevlar pretty much negated a lot of the blow, though. John growled and went for the face instead, packing as much force into his foot as possible.

--

The boys booted foot came flying down. Hicks stared dumbly at it for a few seconds. Or it felt like a few seconds. It was actually under a second, but it felt longer than that. He absently raised his right hand up, open palmed, to absorb the blow. The boot smashed into his hand. The feeling couldn't be fucking described as "ticklish."

"Where the _fuck is she?!"_

Hicks looked up at John Connor and smirked lightly. Then he grabbed John's still raised foot and pulled him forward.

--

He felt like a toppling building. He waved his arms out to try and restore balance to his position, but it did jack shit. The soldier pulled his leg ever forward and he couldn't stay upright. Simple as that. John fell backwards and slammed into the floor with a yell of pain.

--

Hicks sprang up and, carefully massaging his right hand, and he jumped down on the teenager, knees first. It was a crude, ungraceful emulation of the move the machine had used to crack the spine of one of the fanatics just before she shut off. He drove into John's shin, drawing a long scream out of the boy. John leaned up for a split second to punch him. It worked; Hicks took the slug in the face like a trooper, though. He barely acknowledged the blow and leaned further in. John gave a wild shake wit his body and shoved him off. Or he tried to, anyway. Hicks let himself be forced off, but he quickly pulled himself up into a crouch and he slammed his right elbow into the boy's chest. John's eyes went wide, unintelligent, wild as the inevitable pain engulfed him. He gasped out something under his breath and tried to roll himself to the side to avoid the next blow. He didn't. Hicks slammed him again with his elbow, this time to the side of John's head. John didn't seem to react. He just laid there, a positively serene expression on his face. Hicks stared at him for a few seconds, as though contemplating this.

Then he got up and started kicking.

--

He felt like he was dead. This man was gonna beat him to death. If not shoot him. The pain was indescribable. John ignored it.

"Where's Cameron," he murmured.

The soldier stood back for a moment after laying down another brutal kick to John's side. "She's goin' on a fuckin' trip, my friend. S'that what you call her? Cameron?"

John didn't nod. Didn't answer. He tried to kick Hicks in the legs instead. Hicks took the blow, but he kept his balance. There was something shining in the man's eyes. Maybe it was his own craziness. "Cameron, huh? That's a fucking laugh riot, my friend."

He kicked John in side again. John couldn't move. His bones refused to listen to him, muscles went on screaming at the pain, the exertion. He was done.

--

Hicks gave John Connor a measured glance and nodded to himself. Boy put up a fucking good fight. He learned in places, surely enough, but he'd never been in a fucking war, right? He was supposed to lead, but he had no hands-on experience. That killed him.

He was down for the count. Hicks stopped leaning on the teenager for a split second and looked around. The two pistols --both Berettas-- were laying side by side. Column A or column B, eh? Pick yer poison, Hicks.

Hicks grabbed one of the pistols, racked the slide, and turned to face John Connor. He aimed, shutting one of his eyes as he peered down the iron sights at the prostrate boy. He just laid there, unable to move. Kept shaking, like he wanted to move, but couldn't.

Epiphanies are for sissies. Murder the bastards. Do this for your cause, no matter how fucked up it is. Don't think. Be a slave. Epiphanies are for sissies.

Hicks stared down at the helpless teenager for a few seconds before he fired.


	12. The Cops

**Away**

Chapter Twelve: The Cops

It was louder than anything John had ever heard so far. Which, he supposed, was appropriate. It was gonna kill him. He'd lost the fight. Just as he was coming back, to. Was that supposed to mean something? That he should have kept going and not returned? Maybe. Maybe. He'd never know. His eyes were closed. Couldn't see a thing. Not the bullet. Not the guy standing over him. Not the pistol. Not a thing. Die in darkness. Perfect pitch.

For some reason, in a twisted sort of way, he liked that.

Oh, but the bullet missed, though.

Really. Went straight over his head. Went through the wood with a crack, didn't touch a hair on his body. John didn't even open his eyes. Grimaced, though. Maybe that was from the aches in his body, the way his crotch felt like it had swollen to ten times its normal size, the harshness of the bruises all over him. That guy knew how to fight. Better than him, better than Sarah.

Well, maybe not so much Sarah. Better than John, anyway. What irony that he couldn't nail John with a gun at point-blank range. It made things seem more contrived. More annoying. If total failure was John's fate, then he simply wanted it to be over with. Right now.

His lips parted slightly. He took in a slight, measured breath and spoke. "Hurry... please. Do it." It was very soft. Barely over a whisper. An innocent request.

Silence. The man had been... almost jovial as they fought, yelling obscenities with a southern drawl. He sounded like he'd enjoyed himself, goading John when the boy was helpless. Now he was just silent, and that was more unnerving than John having gotten the crap beaten out him. The silence stretched from merely a pause to just the "he's not gonna speak. Or do anything" sort of silence. The indecisive kind.

John's eyes flicked open. One of his eyes refused to do much, though, so he opened only one of them instead. It was okay, though, because the man was lowering the pistol. John stared up at him, almost unbelieving. He could believe it, though. These things happened sometimes. Maybe the guy just wanted to torture him a little. There was always that.

The man shook his head slowly. "You brat..." His voice had become slow and methodical, losing the accent. "Jesus Christ." The weapon in the man's fingers slumped even further downward. It occurred to John that he wouldn't be shot after all.

He didn't move, though. No reason to.

"Are you okay?"

The man looked down at him. _Really_ looked at him. It seemed like the first time he'd done it, he looked at John so hard. He seemed suddenly to become much older than he had been before. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

The pistol tumbled from the man's grasp. It settled to the floor, and did not discharge. It just laid there. The man seemed to be massaging his brow with his left hand, back and forth, the skin on his forehead creasing regularly. "Just go."

"I don't know if I can," John said. He felt embarrassed. Like he'd been caught jerking off. They'd just been fighting. Trying to kill each other, like they hated each other. Now the man just stood there, and he didn't wear a mask, and he didn't seem as... alien as the others had seemed. He seemed like a person. "I can't move."

"I'll leave, then."

"Oh. Okay."

The man took a few shambling, uncertain steps, absently picking up the pistol off the ground. John winced cautiously, thinking that he might have a change of heart, but he didn't. True enough to his word, the man started off down the hall at a regular pace.

"Where is she?" John said after him. _Stupid. _Not stupid, though. He wanted to know. He couldn't leave her. They had her. Maybe they'd kill her.

"Don't try looking for us. You'll get killed. Alright?"

John said nothing. Cameron...

He reached his hand out, trying to grasp the man between his fingers. "Wait."

He felt faintly delirious. He heard sirens in his head. Had to get her. She'd gotten him. Searched for him. She loved him. He wanted to find her, so they could call things even.

But John couldn't do that now, because he blinked once and crumpled, sleeping a deep sleep.

--

Hicks stalked out of the club, continually stroking the barrel of the Beretta. He did it unconsciously, like the thing was precious. He assumed it was precious. He wasn't sure if this pistol belonged to Cameron Forsythe of the boy. If it was the boy's, then this thing was like a virgin. It didn't kill anybody. Cameron's was not a virgin. It had killed someone.

Hicks was no murderer. He felt uncomfortable with this thing all of a sudden.

Outside, Pico Boulevard was still clear of vehicles. The sound of police sirens wailing in the distance filled the noon air. A white, sleek looking sedan was shambling up the road a few hundred meters down, and the two surviving cultists covered it warily. Along with Cameron Forsythe, still clad in her black ski mask and matching uniform, they stood in front of a recently liberated car. Cameron's robotic counterpart lay in the back seat, propped up so it looked like it was sitting. Hicks found this funny.

Cameron held a bluish looking device in her hands. She displayed it so Hicks could see and, very deliberately, she stuck it into her pocket. Hicks stared back at her, impassive to this. If Cameron wanted to preserve that thing, he didn't give a rat's ass.

"What happened?" Cameron asked.

Hicks shrugged. "Gone." He looked toward the car. "We should go."

Cameron stared at him for a few seconds, and Hicks once again found himself wondering what expression lay behind the mask. It felt something close to contempt.

"Yeah. That's okay. I have a plan." She gestured to her two toadies. "In, I'll drive."

Hicks got in the back, sitting next to the machine. A fanatic, his name was Ray, sat on the other side, staring ahead rigidly. Tonight, Hicks thought to himself, he would sneak out when no one was looking.

Hicks looked at the shut down thing next to him and nodded as though at a guest.

--

Michael kept his face straight as the blue sedan a little further down gave out a cough and started moving. He'd been coming along at a snail's pace for about two minutes down this boulevard, just enough time to watch a few black suited men and a woman haul... _Cameron_ out to the car. Slap her in. They waited. Some guy came out. He got in. And now they were leaving, ripping asphalt in Mike's direction. He sped up slightly, for all the world as if he was some panicky driver hoping to avoid a drive-by shooting. Any second now, and then bullets just fly in and then you're dead. Mike found his eyes glued to the place they'd just shot up. Benjamin's something. Hard to tell from here. If Cameron was in there...

A pair of weapons peeped out at him from the car as it passed, but no one fired. Then they were gone, heading off down the street, trying to outpace the police sirens that came steadily now, a constant whine.

Mike's car swerved widely as it came to a halt in front of the dance club. Benjamin's _Place. _Well, better than some other names Mike had encountered in his short time here. He didn't bother turning the engine off, and he was out of the vehicle within moments, hobbling inside with his gun outstretched. You always expect traps, even if it looks like the T's have gone. A fighter who feels safe gets dead quick.

_Where are you..._

Mike didn't have much to worry about, though, because everyone inside was dead. It was a bleak, dingy sort of place, with lots of metal walls and an obviously refurbished wooden dance floor. All destroyed, in ruins, sprinkled with human remnants. Bodies, blood, all of it, the whole nine. Mike took it all in with an eye accustomed to seeing such mayhem and started off toward the back of the club, which had a connecting hallway. He stopped halfway, though, because he could hear someone groaning off to a corner, between some tables.

And Mike went for the groaner, after pushing a bunch of chairs out of his way. And a corpse. Y'know, it was funny, he barely felt any pain now. Not tired, either. Just sort of there, really, walking and doing stuff. It helped to have a goal.

Almost immediately he could tell the groaner was not John; the man's voice was a little too deep. Mike found him stretched out on the floor, two holes in his chest. He had streaks of black paint on his face, long hair. Mike couldn't tell if the wounds were lethal with just a glance, but the guy was conscious.

"Hey..."

Mike shook his head. _No, sorry. You got the wrong guy. _

Mike moved on, the thought occurring to him that he should check the bodies to see if... John wasn't among them.

"Hey..."

That'd be bad, if John was dead. He might shoot himself right there. How could you live like that? He hadn't even told John anything yet. And... man, the world would be screwed proper, wouldn't it? So that'd be bad.

There were a bunch of corpses around, all mostly chewed up by randomized gunplay. Some of it looked deliberate, though, by the stances of the dead. Arms shielding, faces surprised, terrified. Some of them had been executed. None of them were John, and that was all that mattered.

"Come back." A throaty croak. Emaciation in voice alone.

Mike limped back across the floor, checked over the bar top. A long barrel shotgun sat like a big frog on the counter. Some woman had been mutilated beyond human recognition by gunfire. Not John. No one in here was John.

Mike hefted the pistol in his hands and left the club proper, heading into the hallway portion. This place had seen a lot of fighting. Corpses everywhere, black-suited commando types. Guns, too. Spent cartridges. Blood decorated the wall like some mad painter had been through recently. Mike carefully tip-toed around the cadavers, all strewn about with no mind or reason, like forgotten toys in a young child's closet. They wore balaclavas, making it impossible to tell who they were, how they looked when they died. _How_ they died was evident; and varied. Some had their necks broken, spines smashed. Others had been shot with deadly efficiency. Hallmarks of a Terminator. With all of this, Mike wondered why Cameron had been taken out to begin with. It just made no sense.

The sirens were incredibly loud now, and Mike could hear the screeching of tires outside. He quickened his pace, going from full checks on corpses to brief once-overs. He absently stooped to pick up a fallen Colt M4A1 carbine, checking the action. Still alright. No idea how many clips were in. If the cops came calling, this thing would probably be enough to send them running just by sight alone.

Carrying the thing in his hands, Mike blinked as his eyes settled on a corpse that looked different from the others. Differently clothed, actually. Jeans. A pale white shirt with some black stenciling. The head was tilted at an angle Mike couldn- wait.

"JOHN!"

The carbine tumbled from Mike's grasp as he broke out into a full-on sprint, unmindful of the waves of pain that were sent up through his body. He half-tumbled to a stop in front of John, getting on his knees. He looked dead. A slight smattering of blood on the wooden floor. As Mike picked him up by his arms he could see wounds all over him, dried blood, sweat. He turned John fully over and laid him down, Mike's breath coming out in panicked wheezes. He was here, right here, right here and... and _he_ looked _dead! NO!_ He felt like slapping a hand to his head, so he could stand there and feel sorry for himself. John looked dead. Eyes were shut as vaults, mouth unmoving. Chest still. He looked like he fucking died of... of _something, _not bullets, more like shock, more like... he _didn't know, he looked dead!_

"Jesus, oh my god... Jesus..."

Eyes closed. Right. Mike pulled one of the lids open. A green iris stared forward. There was... it was difficult to tell. _Looked_ dead. Was? No idea. Mike bent forward and laid his ear against John's chest. C'mon... please, holy christ...

Thump. Thump. Oh.

OH GOD, yes! His heart, his heart was _BEATING_, FUCKIN' A! Oh, Jesus, he was crying, _laughing. Alive. _

"John! John, John, wake up!" He smacked his face twice in quick succession, trying to elicit a response. Out like a light. Jesus, c'mon! But alive!

"John! Hey! Up and at em'! WAKE UP!" He smacked him again, leaving a bright red mark on his face this time. Mike took in a deep breath, trying to think. Jesus, he looked beat up, the fuck happened in here...

There was a high crackling sound of acoustics outside: "_You in there! Lay down your weapons and come out with your hands above your head!"_

The wounded guy from before started to yell for help. Michael hissed and swung back to John, for all the world as if the boy had called Mike a bad name or something. He hissed and began to shake John's shoulders, breathing his name constantly. Had to hurry, hurry, hurry. It was alright, though, all alright, because John was still alive, and that was all that really mattered. Everything else paled in comparison to that.

_"John!"_

A meek groan escaped John's mouth. A whimper.

"Cam..." A breath as much as a word.

"John, hey, hey, hey! Hey, hey... John." Mike shook him again. Jesus Christ, he felt so fucking happy.

"What... stop... stop... where..."

His eyes flashed open, but they refused to comprehend. His shoulders, arms stirred in Mike's hands, and Mike slowly raised him forward. John coughed spasmodically as he settled, neck dipping back against his shoulders, taking in deep, sucking breaths.

"Cam..."

"No, it's Mike, Mike Oxferod, hey John."

"Mike..."

Michael grinned. He couldn't help it. "Hey, John. Listen, can you stand?"

John nodded silently. His eyes flicked wildly back and forth, taking in everything now. Mike helped him turn his head to his own head. The grin got a bit wider, more relieved as John's eyes focused in on Mike. He looked confused as hell. He didn't know where he was. It was possible that he might have a concussion. Mike couldn't see any bruising on his head, though. Not much, anyway. Some blood. God, he looked _all_ banged up, so it was hard to tell.

"Mike?"

Mike nodded quickly. "Hey! We gotta go, I'm sorry. Can you stand?"

"Sure." Mike helped him stand. He let go of John's hand (reluctantly) and watched him for a few seconds to see if he wouldn't fall. John blinked rapidly again, staring at Michael like he was an alien from another planet. Maybe he did have a concussion.

"What're you doing here?" He blinked again.

Mike laughed. Really nervously. He seemed alright. "I'll explain in a second, but we've seriously gotta run. Can you run?"

"I'm just a bit winded, man, I-I can run."

"Great. Let's go, c'mon." Mike grabbed John's hand and started to lead him on toward the back door. When John shook his hand off, Mike kept going. And John kept going with him. That had to do for now. Even after finding out that he'd lived through getting shot, Mike still couldn't find a time in his life where he'd been this relieved.

--

All a blur.

He was sleeping one second, up the next. Why? He felt seriously confused. Michael was here. John had difficulty fully believing it was him, but... there was Mike holding onto him, holding his hand, all of that. So he was there. Real. Hadn't he been shot?

Maybe he was dreaming.

His head pounded. Literally. Felt like drums beating rapidly in his mind, a steady thump thump thump. It hurt. He stared confusedly after the resistance fighter, feeling the urge to scratch his head. Hadn't that guy been...

Okay. Take a second. Take it all in. See where you are. Most importantly... don't fuckin' panic.

WHERE WAS CAMERON?! WHAT WAS HE DOING HERE?! WHAT WAS _MIKE_ DOING HERE? HADN'T HE BEEN SHOT?! WERE THOSE SIRENS?! WHAT WHAT-

"Aaahh..." John rubbed his forehead, suddenly forcing his eyelids shut. Whoa, whoa, _hey. _Blurred... spinning... falling...

Mike wheeled back toward John and yanked his hand; he was fainting, just falling down, eyes shut tight. Pulled, pulled... John held onto Mike's hand like it was a lifeline.

"Hey," Mike said. "Hey, you okay?"

"What're you doing here?"

"I'll explain in a sec, we really gotta go. The door's right there, man. Can you still walk? You gonna throw up or something?"

"Dude, I _told_ you, I can walk. I just... what're you doing here? Where's Cameron?"

Mike muttered something under his breath. John had no idea what it was, and he didn't really care. He felt oddly like he was swimming. A fish. A lost little fishy. He was a fish. Mike started to drag John by his fi- hand, pulling him along towards the door. John's feet shuffled listlessly after him. John could hear noises, thumping sounds behind him. Maybe... Allison, banging on the counter? She never did that. God, he wished she'd stop.

"Mike, slow down..." John said. Every second, and the world just kept spinning faster and faster, round and round. He felt sick. Slow down...

"Can't. Sorry. Really. Just keep going, we'll stop in a few minutes." Mike looked back at John. He seemed worried. Or mortified.

They came out into the day, the back alley. There were a few dead people around. John groaned. Everything was bright, _too_ bright. He kept his eyes shut.

"Christ, that's a long walk," Michael said. "Does that van work?"

"What van?"

"Never mind. I think you've got a concussion, or something."

"No I don't."

"I could be wrong, but just hang in there, okay? Hold my hand, and don't let go... okay?"

"I... don't swing that way, dude."

Michael cackled suddenly with surprised laughter. They walked on in silence for about a minute, their feet making dull sounds on the concrete. John could barely hear the sounds of his footsteps. Those sirens were fucking annoying.

"That thing better have keys or something." Mike looked at John, but John couldn't see that, because his eyes were shut. "Little further."

"What're you doing here?"

John lets his eyes flicker open. Something large and fat and black sat ahead of them. Hard to tell. His vision kept getting shittier by the minute. Mike took another quick look at John. John could barely see it, but Mike didn't seem to be in such great shape himself. He limped constantly; his face a constant grimace of pain. Misery loves company.

Loud, screeching tires. Jesus, what now? Michael cursed and took a few back steps away from the van. He yanked John along with him, who'd been a bit slow on the uptake. Sirens, _very loud_ and _very close. _Full stop of tires.

"Holy shit, run!"

John blinked and turned and followed Mike as he ran. There was a low crackle of police radio chatter behind him. Oh. The cops were trying to cover the alley. Fuck. God, his legs felt like they were stuck in molasses or something. Just run. Run. Nothing to it. You've been trained your whole life to run. Run is something you do. You can do it for a long time. Run. _Run._

He ran alongside Mike, keeping up splendidly. What a joyless, mindless activity, running. Every bounding step threatened to knock him over, but no, he was too good for that. Much too good at running. Mike skidded to a halt in front of something black and green and tore open... a lid? A lid. A dumpster.

"In!"

John stood dumbstruck, trying to focus on the thing. "Wait... hold on... hold on..."

"Oh, Jesus." Mike bent forward and cupped his hands. "I don't know what's in there, be careful as you go in!"

John stared at him. "What...?"

"My hands! Stool, y'know?! Go, c'mon!"

"Oh." He stood on Mike's hands and Mike lifted him up slightly so he could tumble himself into the dumpster. Aside from some cardboard and a few rancid smelling bags, it was pretty much empty. John fell on his ass as he went inside and scooted over slightly so Mike could follow him. He leaned his head back against the steel, trying desperately to get his bearings on the situation. Happening. How, Why. Where. All so blurred.

Mike was in the dumpster within moments, breathing as though through something wet and decaying. His hands flew up to the dumpster lid and he brought it closed, throwing everything into darkness.

Nothing but their breathing for a few seconds.

"Stay fucking quiet," Mike's voice said.

John decided that was a good idea. He didn't want to talk anyway. He stared ahead, and tried closing his eyes. No change visually. He opened his eyes. Calm yourself. Be cool. Chill. Calm, cool, chill.

He felt something brush up on his leg. Impossible to tell what it was, so John just stiffened slightly and then relaxed. The thing moved up and down a few seconds and then withdrew. It was Mike's hand.

Oh, alright then.

A few seconds, and the deathly silence was broken by muffled footfalls outside, loud and obnoxious as they passed. Voices. Couldn't tell what they were saying. Probably cops. And soon they were all gone, and the only sound was a door slamming.

Then nothing. Breathing.

Mike cleared his throat. "You awake?"

"Yeah."

A low chuckle. "Jesus. Ok, uh... do you feel dizzy?"

"Yeah."

"Headache?"

"Yeah."

"Do you remember how you got like that?"

"Some guy beat the tar out of me."

"Oh..." Mike made a curious noise. Oh.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you're not supposed to remember if it's a concussion."

"I don't have a concussion," John whined. "And get your hand off me."

"Sorry. Do you know where you are?"

"My head hurts."

"Okay... Uh... Are you gonna throw up?"

"I dunno. I'm really tired."

"Alright, we're staying here for a bit, then."

"Where's Cameron?"

"They took her in their car. Don't worry about her."

John whimpered. He felt so fucking helpless all of a sudden, and that made him _seriously_ pissed off. But...

"What are you doing here?"

No answer. John felt like saying something again, but he decided against it. It'd help nothing. Wouldn't help his mood. Instead he decided to fall asleep.

Mike's hand was rubbing his shoulder comfortingly, and John didn't know if he could tell him to stop anymore.

--

The two navy blue garbed cops stared out over the massacre site as Agent James Ellison prowled from corpse to corpse. A multitude of their kind stood off by the sidelines, watching in meek dismay at the remnants of chaos. Outside, Ellison could hear the whine of distant ambulances. He didn't think they'd be necessary, although he did hold hope for at least one soul left alive to tell of what had happened here. Of the law enforcement there, Ellison was the only one to tread out into the killing grounds without so much as a pause.

It was good training for what was to come yet ahead.

Life had ended in many ways for these people. For some it had clearly come swiftly, with little fuss. For others...

Ellison found himself staring intently at all the blood. And thinking about how much of it was actually real.

Odd how he did this. How the shock hadn't really set in yet. He'd seen far too many massacres recently, however, to be much affected by them anymore. Ellison found that... disturbing, but not necessarily unbecoming of one of his profession. The FBI dealt with these things for good reason.

Surely enough, the assailants were the same people who'd attacked the police station two days prior. Conveniently in the presence of Sarah Connor's son and two accomplices, no less. Was this, then, merely a coincidence? Of course not. Ellison did not believe in coincidences, and so he did not treat it as such. There was no point in allowing his personal convictions into his professional capacities, though, no matter how strongly he believed they were true.

Perhaps he'd find an all-too familiar face among this blasted wreckage of human life here, both to confirm his suspicions and to pang at his heart. And why the latter? He did not know, not entirely.

Ellison leaned up from a body --this one had been mercifully clean in its execution-- and glanced at assembled L.A.P.D.. They looked predictably shocked. And who wouldn't be, after this week? The local news channels were already spinning it as a homegrown terror cell. A very well equipped, suicidally effective terror cell, no less. These men and women had been dealing with this... group --Nothing else to call it but a group, anyway-- and their violence for the past five days. Still...

"Gentlemen." James rasied his voice. "I understand the L.A.P.D. doesn't pay its hard-working officers to stand around with their jaws hanging on hinges, and in light of that I would appreciate a little help with all this." His method. Crass, business-like. Personable when necessary, brutally efficient when needed.

It worked, too. They seemed too drained to do anything but listen to his orders. Immediately two officers sprinted out to their cruisers, and the rest advanced forward, carefully inventorying the corpses and assorted weapons. The scene would be paradise for forensics, but for now all the cops had left to do was pick up the pieces.

Ellison watched this for a few seconds before leaning back over the corpse he'd been examining. A woman with a shock of black, whiplike hair. Shot cleanly through the forehead, execution style. Her long, angular face looked paradoxically serene. White marks around her eyes suggested she used spectacles often, but Ellison couldn't see any.

What a massive detour from the simplicity of...

Okay, that was a lie. What he'd been working on before wasn't simple. It was, in some ways, more terrifying than this affair by itself. And the smell of Sarah Connor permeated this case, too. But not his case. He was a grunt in this. Exactly what his title proclaimed. An agent of the federal government, trying to solve and alleviate an outbreak of violence. Not his case. But this case and his case were... inexplicably connected. As if all roads here led to Sarah Connor.

He had already come to some very basic conclusions. Conclusions that he'd made even before he bore witness to a robotic skeletal figure in the police department, before he encountered the son, before any of that. Still, this was food for thought.

Food that he kept trying to hold back, to spit out. His better judgment kept getting the... why, the better of him.

Something rumbled in his pocket. Ellison carefully dodged past a cop and slipped the cellphone out of his pocket. Surprising, how small these things had gotten... He flipped the cover off and thumbed the optimistically green button on the side after confirming the calling number.

"You'd better have some good news for me, Greta." He looked back towards the scene behind him and shook his head. "Lord knows I could use some."

"Really fucking sorry to disappoint, Ellison. Your kid ran before I could get the warrant on him; killed a security guard and stole a car."

...

"S'cuse me?" He could _not_ have heard that correctly.

"Where are you? What's going on?"

"Hold your horses, Greta." Ellison made a halting gesture to no one in particular. "Tell me what happened."

"James, I just fucking told you. I lost his trail about ten minutes ago, goddamnit. _What's going on?"_

Ellison took in a deep breath. The Lord worked in, he thought grouchily, rather annoyingly mysterious ways. One of his last remaining links to the Connors and now it was gone. "Describe the car."

"White, Nissan brand, I-I think. A sedan, goddamnit, Ellison."

Ellison blinked and started moving towards the entrance, his legs seeming to move without his willing, nor prompting. It was almost migratory. "Go on."

"There's nothing else to say, he got away. I put out an APB, but I'm hearing about a shoot-out. I'm wondering... James?"

James shimmied past two incoming paramedics. Neither party gave each other but the most base of glances, so consumed were they in their tasks. Neither James nor Charley Dixon recognized the other. Ellison continued out into the street, fixing his eyes upon the lone white Nissan sedan among a field of police cruisers and ambulances.

"Pico Boulevard, place called Benjamin's Place, Greta. I'll explain when you get here." He shut the cellphone and stared at the car.

The Lord provides to the faithful, no matter how knowledgeable they may be to their true circumstances.

--

"Cameron!"

"Holy-"

Mostly by chance, John avoided hitting his head against the steel lid of the dumpster, but he _did_ come damned close as he jerked up from an unconscious slumber. His mind felt like a cesspool of random memories, dream-like events, what got him here, where was he, how was he, why did his head hurt so badly? His breath came in short.

Silence from Michael.

Why'd he say Cameron? Oh, right. There were the memories. She was gone. Everything came flooding back. His head really hurt. Jesus.

"Ma-Mike?"

"Keep it low, John. What's up?"

"How... how long was I asleep?"

Mike paused for a few seconds. "Uh, I'd say about... uh... forty five minutes. I dunno. I can't keep good track of time in here."

He wasn't kidding; the inside of the dumpster was blacker than a tomb, impenetrable. You could only go by hearing alone. John just sat there, trying to round up his scattering thoughts and forming a game plan. Always need a plan. What happened? Okay. The cultists came. He and Cam fought them off for a while. Cam got captured. John tried to get back, found that soldier, soldier beat up John... There was a bit of a blind spot in between. He looked around feverishly, saw nothing of course. Okay. He knew Mike was here. Not how he got here, but he knew he was here. How'd they get to this dumpster?

Cops. They were... walking. Had to avoid cops. All coming back. _GOD, _his head hurt.

"How do you feel?" Mike asked.

"Head hurts."

"How much do you remember?" The question came with some barely concealed apprehension.

"We were trying to get away... I-I think, I'm not sure. I don't remember getting down in here."

"So you remember nothing... in here, right?"

John blinked. The hell did that mean? "Uh, no."

"Okay. Uh. I was just trying to hide us from the cops, they came up the alley, y'see, and... well, y'know."

"Why wait so long?"

"You were tired out of your goddamn skull, and you looked ready to collapse, John."

"I got messed up pretty bad, yeah. I can't fucking_ think_..."

"That'll pass."

"I had such a _weird_ dream just now."

A beat. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, can't remember it for shit."

"Oh."

"You okay, Mike?"

"I-I'm fine."

"You were just... god, forget it. Jesus, Mike, how'd you get here?"

"You've been asking me that for awhile now, heh."

"Well, answer."

"I got outta the hospital. That's all there is to it. I came to find you, John."

"Why?"

"So I can help you and your mother." He heard Mike gulp. "Yeah."

"Oh, man..."

"What?"

John stared into the darkness, joining his fingers together timidly. "Uh. What about Cheri? Your dad?"

"They're not important anymore. I mean, I'll... I dunno. I'm here for you now, your mom. I want to help you fight Skynet. That's it, basically. Sorry if that's a lil' blunt, but it's the truth."

"Jesus. Mike, I'm... I've been... Jesus."

"_What?_"

No real choice. John spoke rapidly, explaining everything that had happened so far. He could remember _that_ quite clearly. It was burned into his mind. The bus. Evading Cameron. Running. Being a coward. And now this. He explained in a whisper that he wasn't gonna do it anymore.

"I'm through acting like... a pussy, y'know. I'm just gonna stay. God_fucking_damnit."

He couldn't tell what Mike looked like. The guy hadn't been kind to him before. He'd yelled at John for breaking down during the police station raid. Mind, he'd broken down _himself_ after getting his own personal Jesus complex of John ruined, which made things even worse.

"Okay."

John gawked. "Okay?"

"Yeah. You're not running anymore, are you?"

"No, but... I'm just fucking pissed at myself is all."

"Everyone doubts themselves, John."

John glared at Michael. Or tried to, anyway. Difficult to tell. He'd heard this spiel a thousand times from _everyone,_ and now Mike? Christ.

"You were the one getting all pissed off at me for this shit, Mike."

"I know. And I was wrong. That's all there is to it. Look, it doesn't matter, alright? You're here, you're not-"

"_No! _It _does_ fucking matter, Mike. You don't fucking understand, if anyone knew about this they wouldn't follow me or... or anything! How am I supposed to lead if the first person I doubt is myself?!"

A beat. "_I_ follow you. I'm your soldier, John. I'm giving myself up to you. I believe in _you._"

Oh, man... Martyrs. John hated fucking martyrs. But he was... so fucking blatant, so rational. The guy said it with barely any inflection in his voice. This was the way things were. John shook his head. Doing that hurt, though, so he stopped. "Why? Why me? You fucking came here from the future on a mission, _you'd_ be better suited at it. Oh, Christ, there I go with it again. I can't fucking do this."

Mike chuckled softly. "Funny."

"What?"

"John. Remember when I told you about how you sent me here?"

"I tell you not to tell anyone why you're here, yes. If-if that makes sense."

"It doesn't, because I lied to you, John."

Beat. "_What?"_

"I lied. I'm not on a mission. I was the first one to find a time machine. Some kinda prototype, I dunno. I guess they made better ones later on, but... at the time I just went through. I'm not on a mission. I found myself here, and I decided to run. To do nothing. I ran, John. I ran. I've spent two years here, doing absolutely nothing. No goals."

"You're selling me a fucking story. You're trying to make me feel better." Holy shit.

"No. It's the truth, John. I'm not on a mission. I ran. Just like you."

He could feel Mike leaning forward. "And like you, I don't want to run anymore. I want to fight. I've traded one army for another, but the commander's the same. I'm going to help you fight."

"I'm no commander..."

"Not yet, no. But I don't give a shit. How're you feeling?"

"My head hurts."

"Do you remember anything _now?_"

"M-Mike, shut up a sec, okay?" He was shivering all over.

"Yes, sir."

--

About fifteen minutes later, John and Michael slowly pushed the lid of the dumpster upwards, both of them blinking rapidly as daylight, still as strong and vigorous as ever, poured through into the bleakness. John's shoe kept slipping on something mushy, and he was having trouble keeping a firm balance.

They both turned their heads toward the black van. Police tape. A cop standing guard. No one else occupied the alley, and the corpses of the fallen commandos were gone. Chalk outlines of their death throes were all that remained.

They stared at the back of the cop for a few seconds. John kept glancing back toward Michael, as though seeing him for the first time. He wore a pasty white t-shirt and matching sweat pants. He looked pale as his clothing. What from? Blood loss? Yeah. Probably. John kept looking at him, all cockeyed. For some reason he felt as if there was a blind spot in his memory, starting from when they were trying to outrun the cops. When they went into the dumpster. Just a swirling void of nothingness. Couldn't remember shit. He remembered everything in patches, pretty much, but this was just a solid bit of blankness. Maybe it was the dream he'd had. He remembered Michael was in it. And it was really dark. Nothing else.

Not a thing. John was missing something here. It sort of creeped him out. For some reason he felt... just _whacked out_ by Mike all of a sudden. Not off-put. Not friendly, either. Just kind of weird. He felt closer to him. God, his life was just a series of opposite juxtapositions. That was kind of annoying.

"How much does she matter to you?" Mike asked.

"We're getting her back." In the dumpster John convinced Mike to help him rescue Cameron. Somehow. Mike suggested waiting for Derek and Sarah to return, but that wasn't a goddamned option. They had to know _nothing_ about what went on here, his running, all of it. They'd get Cam, kill the bad guys, and John would come up with a tall tale for Mike's sudden appearance and letting him stay.

Somehow. It was a fucking crapshoot, but Mike didn't seem to mind that. True to his word, he accepted John's judgment.

"I know. I was just wondering." Mike smirked.

"She... God, it's confusing. She matters a lot to me, Mike. A lot. I trust her. She did _everything_ to get me back, and I can't just... y'know, let her twist in the wind like that." He sighed, wondering if Mike would even get that.

"I know how you feel," the resistance fighter said. He jerked his head toward the cop's back. "What do you wanna do with him?"

John frowned. "Well, I-"

The door to the club banged open. Mike threw himself into John, fixing a hand around his neck and dragging him loudly into the dumpster. John tried not to breathe. Mike was half on top of John, and it was pretty uncomfortable. Couldn't complain, though. They just laid there, silent.

"He couldn't have gotten far." A woman's voice.

"No kidding," said a male's voice. John recognized it, but he had difficulty placing the speaker _exactly. _"But I doubt he's still on the premises. We'll check in with this gentleman up here."

"Look at _you_, James. Strutting like a man with a plan all over again." She chuckled.

"Oh, come on now. You can't not see the connections here."

"Between your murders and all of this? No one's even had time to do a proper investigation yet, Ellison, I wouldn't hold my breath."

"I beg to differ on that, as the facts are laid plain for you to see."

She scoffed, and then she said something else, but they were too far off now for it to make any sense to John. He blinked and gave Mike a light push. The resistance fighter clambered off of him, shuddering.

"What?"

"They're feds."

"No shit," John said dryly. He peeked out at the two retreating figures. It was Agent James Ellison and some woman John didn't recognize. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Uh. One of them tailed me out of the hospital. That woman. She tried to shoot me."

"You okay?"

Michael snorted. "Jesus, John, I'm fine. If she nailed me you'd know it by now."

"I doubt you'd survive another nailing." John gave him a mischievous smirk.

"Uh. Yeah." Mike looked away, his face reddening somewhat.

See, that was _it._ Weird. Things like that.

"Mike..."

"Don't worry about it, John. Honestly." He looked at John. "Let's wait for em' to pass, okay?"

John shook his head slowly and waited, ducking his head back in along with Michael. In the distance they could hear the two g-men chatting with the cop. God, they had to hurry up and run, this place was gonna be _swarming_ any minute now with cops.

"How much do you remember?" Mike asked, his tone conversational.

"Why do you keep asking me that?"

He just shrugged.

"I remember enough, alright? I don't have a concussion. Just hurts. Bruises. The guy knocked my brainpan a little, but it's okay. I'm okay. Let's leave it now."

"Yes, sir."

John let out a noise, half gasp, half sigh. He hated titles. How fluidly Mike said it, though, as if it was nothing new to him...

Footsteps coming back.

"How's your kid?" Ellison.

"Alright. Every time I get into situations like today, I just... I keep a good front. I'm clear, cool. Inside I'm nothing like that, though. I worry about him, what would happen if..."

"It's important to remain professional."

"Don't patronize me, James."

"I wasn't, Greta. Not at all."

The door to Benjamin's Place went shut. John breathed and nodded toward Michael. Mike nodded back. They climbed up over the lip of the dumpster and plopped down onto the wet, decrepit ground of the alley. Keeping themselves low, they hurried ahead, keeping the turned police officer in their sights. If he turned around... Well, Mike had a gun. John didn't want to think about that possibility, though. Knock the guy out, get in the van, drive away. Bing bam boom. Easy. First trial after a long day of misery. John shook his head slightly, clearing away every extraneous thought. Concentrate. Tense. Be ready.

Mike kept step with him, even with his perpetual limp. For all his problems, for all the "big unknown" he represented to John, he was glad to have the guy covering his six. Competence was pretty important in matters like this. He certainly couldn't go galavanting off to rescue Cameron with, say, the actor or something. Sammy. Something like that. What John needed was cool, collected. Competent.

If only he didn't give off such a fucking vibe, he'd be much more...

Well, John had no idea. Mike certainly wouldn't feel like Mike if he didn't have his share of problems, his weirdness. Derek felt like that sometimes.

They shuffled along together for over a minute, slowly overtaking the cop. It became apparent that the man was alone, but he did seem pretty restless. He'd hear them coming. The key to taking him out was knowing when to strike. That was a big worry. John wasn't sure if he was up to it. He still felt incredibly depleted, weak from his fight with that guy, from everything, his limited amnesia. Just had to keep going, though.

The cop noticed their approach when they were about a few feet behind him. He turned around, a look of mild puzzlement on his face. Most guards never expect to see anything coming. Much less have those things turn out to be dangerous. It was always a jolt. There's a moment of utter disbelief, like the guard thinks he's hallucinating. He stared at them for a few seconds.

During that, John leaped out of his crouch, drew back his fist, and ran for the guy, keeping himself completely silent. No grunting, yelling, no stupid machismo. You're like a ninja. Assassin. Be competent.

The cop let out a cry of terror and started to fumble with his service handgun. He took a few back steps, pushing against the yellow tape behind him.

John skidded to a halt, grabbed the guy by the shoulder with one of his hands, and pulled. At the same time, his cocked back fist lashed out with as much brute force as he could pack into it. John was pretty lanky as a rule. Always had been. Underneath all that was harshly trained muscle, whether dormant or exercised. His fist smashed into the center of the man's face, eliciting a loud crack. He sputtered up blood, coughing. Wasn't enough. The cop stopped going for his sidearm and went for plan b, which consisted of him running away.

John wasn't about to let that happen. Keeping his breath tight and controlled, he grabbed the guy again and pulled again, this time with greater force. The man's legs flew out from under him like they'd been smashed with a mallet, his back impacting the concrete as he grunted in pain.

"H-h-HELP!"

John kicked him in the head. Then he punched him again. John felt like the soldier who'd beaten the crap out of him not even an hour ago. He felt elation at defeating his enemy, pulverizing him. It was easy to feel like that as long as death wasn't involved. It felt more noble, more celebratory.

All weird. All fucked up. The guy was _still_ in abject terror, in pain, after all. John was _still_ acting like a madman as he pummeled him. He had fucking wood, he felt so high on the violence.

John knew he was a good person. He was really fucking sensitive at heart when all was said and done. But pure, unadulterated violence just depletes your better senses, makes you an animal in the process as it happens.

John took a back step. The guy was unconscious, blood decorating his face. His nose would probably need surgery, or something. Jesus...

"Okay, well. Yeah." John giggled manically. He rubbed his forehead, which hurt more than ever right now.

He heard nothing but a grunt from Michael. The whole exchange took less than ten seconds. A flash. It was okay. You do these things, John. It's necessary.

"What now?" Mike asked.

"Nothin', leave him. Sure, yeah."

"You okay?"

"That was scary." He folded his arms.

"You'll get used to it."

Inside the van they found nothing but a stripped down interior. Some boxes of ammo. A few pistols and an H&K MP5. It was all neatly labeled "DO NOT TOUCH: EVIDENCE." The cabin of the van was filled with dried blood and gore, with a tag hanging over labeled "FORENSICS." The man who'd been inside was no where to be seen.

"Keys?" Mike said.

"Still in. We're good." John breathed in. "We're gonna play it by ear for now, okay? Check the glove compartment for maps, cellphones, anything. I need time to think."

Mike sat in next to him, unmindful of the blood. "We're still good, John."

"What?" He gulped and stared at the other kid.

"We're still good. You look like we've already lost."

John shook his head and looked back at the steering wheel, turning the keys. A low hum announced itself from the back. He'd have to do some pretty fancy driving work to get outta the cordon of police cruisers, but other than that, they were golden. For now.

For now. "Can you blame me, Mike? After all that's happened, can you blame me? Christ, I've never felt this scared in my whole fucking life."

Mike shrugged, appearing unconcerned now. He patted a hand on John's shoulder, causing the younger kid to flinch back almost instinctively. For the second time, John felt as if his brain knew something... and it was keeping silent on whatever it was. It was just a feeling, anyhow. Nothing really important. A feeling.

"It's gonna be okay, John. Really. Drive."


	13. The Engineer

**Away**

Chapter Thirteen: The Engineer

"You're swervin' a bit."

John tersely swung the wheel to the left. The brightly lit curb drew away to a comfortable distance, along with the myriads of pedestrians walking busily along it. He bit his lip. "Not used to driving vans, sorry."

Michael Oxferod's shoulders rose up in a shrug; his head peered into the glove compartment, working alongside his hands to identify anything that looked like it could lead them to the cultists' hideout. And Cameron. John felt vaguely sick; it rang too much of a cliched "storm the castle, save the princess" routine if he thought about it _that_ way. Which he wasn't! Think in terms of military. Extraction. Tactical rescue. No pike-wielding footmen. Men with guns. Much easier. Right? Yeah.

No.

The image of Cameron in an extravagant pink dress and crown was far too potent. Not in a funny way, either; it sort of scared him, actually. The fact that his mind was even like that. If he was gonna approach this like a swashbuckling douchebag then he might as well take that pistol on the dashboard and blow his brains out to save anyone else the trouble. Couldn't fool himself into thinking that, now that he was... uh, "sort of" back to where he'd started, being the savior and all that jazz, that he couldn't start feeling... empowered? Yeah. Like he was invincible. Like he couldn't second guess himself.

And now let's be completely honest, Johnny. You're still not entirely sold, are you? No. You're scared. You don't have anything else left to do. This is a knee-jerk reaction, tinged with rationally-obtained conclusions. Those cultists want you dead? Well, you kill em', using Cameron and Mike. Then what? Leave again? Run while they're not looking?

Maybe, deep down, that had been the plan. But then he second guessed himself.

And in the end, he really didn't know where he stood at all.

"There's this wire here..." Michael said, not looking out at John.

John kept his eyes fixed on the road. "Yeah?"

"I cut it."

John blinked. "Why the hell would you do that?"

"It was an accident, John, but don't worry, I don't think it was important."

John frowned, but he said nothing more. He had no one around left to trust except this guy who looked like he wanted to bang him every other second, but hey, you take what you can get, right? Beggars get shot for being choosers.

--

"I hate this place."

Hicks stared up at the derelict library, itself amid other such examples of obsolescence and urban decay. It was big. Really big. Too big. Too isolated. There'd been something like it at Hicks' college, and hardly anyone went to _that_ one, even so conveniently located as it was. It had been big, concrete. Creepy. Your feet echoed as you walked, making it seem like you were surrounded by people you hadn't known were there.

Same deal with this place. It probably hadn't always been a library. Bookstore? Hicks didn't know. Slung in one of the workers quarters during the 60s, when there were still industrial jobs before they got shipped over to China. Now no one lived here except... why, derelicts to occupy derelicts. Perfect symbiosis.

Cameron Forsythe shot a look toward him. Then another toward the surviving two cultists. Without the need of words, they dragged the comatose robot ahead toward the library.

"Why?" she asked.

"It's big. It's dank. Plenty of books still around, like people should be in there reading." He turned his head to look at Cameron. "It's just us, though. Four people and a robot. Makes it easy for you to think someone's sneaking up on you."

Cameron watched him for a few seconds, very quiet. Hardly breathing. "But you did, right? Before?"

"When there were plenty of us? No. Not even then. It's hard to explain."

She smiled at him. "I think I'll understand."

"It's not about understanding." Hicks hefted his assault rifle and started on toward the library-turned-impromptu machine cult barracks. "It's about not telling."

Cameron sniffed. She absently reached into her pocket, withdrew a tiny device with a large, reassuringly big red button on it, and pressed the button twice.

--

"Where's that goddamn ambulance?"

Ellison glared at Greta Simpson. He was no stickler for faith, never had been, but he could only take so many direct blasphemes in one day. She probably realized what she was doing, too. Hoping to get a rise out of him, have someone to argue with, to vent _all_ of her frustrations upon. Well, he wasn't about to entertain it.

To be honest, after all that'd happened so far, he felt very much like blaspheming himself. Currently he and Greta stood outside of Benjamin's Place, awaiting the swift return of an ambulance. Most were booked with patients headed for the hospital or with dead bodies headed for the same place, except they would be going downstairs instead of up. Beneath them lay the cop whom they'd assigned to guard the back alley. He'd been brutalized. The van he was guarding? Gone. Greta immediately suspected Oxferod, and Ellison wasn't sure he could bring himself to disagree with that assessment. She took it rather hard.

"He killed a security guard, Ellison. A fat old shmoe doing his duty and he just plugs the guy four times? Could have been anyone. An old lady, James."

"Anyone." He paused for a few seconds, staring down at the L.A.P.D. officer. "D'ya think cop-killing extends to security guards?"

Greta stared off ahead into the street. "No idea. Afraid someone will off him before you can pick his little head for secrets?"

"Very." He looked at her. Would she be pulling the trigger?

And she looked back at him. _Would you stop me? If you do try to stop me, you'll be sorry. _

He continued, as if none of that happened. "At the moment he's my best lead in the killings."

"Lazlo's already been cleared, James. It's a dog, and I don't think any of us can really solve it anymore. Certainly not you. What's this kid got to do with it, anyway?"

Ellison grunted and turned around to look at the nearby black van, intent on changing the subject. "You'll see, I hope. They get everything outta that van yet?"

Greta turned alongside him. "I have no clue, Ellison, I just got-"

There was a bright flash, a whine of released oxygen, a dull, explosive _thwump_! and a metallic shrieking above all of that when the van exploded.

"Oh my god." Greta mumbled as they both tasted concrete.

"Leave Him out of this."

Several blocks away, the black van John Connor was driving continued on in relative silence. A bomb waited patiently within the car, just between the dashboard and engine, for a signal that would never come. Within the glove compartment was a small transmitter, its connection to the explosive rendered moot by Michael's careless rummaging.

--

The place was much as they'd left it. Huge, grey, filled with cheap wooden shelves upon shelves upon shelves of old, moldy books. The barracks was on the second floor. The first had probably been much like the second, but some construction company had gutted the place before realizing no one would turn a profit off this place anyway. They left it to weather the consequences of negligence, to finally collapse under its own decay in a hundred years.

Either that or it'd be blown away like a box of matches in the nuclear fire.

The bright red phone, hooked up to a stolen cable jack, stood right where it'd been. The sleeping bags were by the windows. There were some side-offices dotting the perimeter, and those hadn't seen much use other than for briefings and intelligence work. A makeshift computer room. An interrogation room. All by the book. Supposedly modeled after Skynet facilities in the future, the ones that the massive computer intelligence couldn't grow for itself. All supplied by Samuel and his efficiency.

A week ago, and this place had been teeming with over twenty guys and two women. Most of those guys were dead now. The two women had been killed at the police station. One of those women was Sarah Hicks.

This place wasn't welcome anymore. He saw himself and his wife moving in, still clad in their black uniforms, holding weapons, grumbling good-naturedly to one another about its overall shittiness. That was... about two days before she died? Three? He didn't know anymore.

Bad memories. Not for much longer, hopefully.

Ray and his remaining counterpart (Hicks didn't know his name) came sauntering out of the interrogation room.

"It's secure, Miss Forsythe," the unknown said.

Cameron, still standing alongside Hicks, guffawed. "Restraints?"

Ray and the other guy shared a brief look.

"We'll get some."

Cameron held up a hand. Said hand came a little close to Hicks, and he found himself shrinking back away from it. As if it was a creature of sight, and it would try to do something to him should he be seen. "No need. I've got something for her. You guys did a _great_ job."

"Thank you," they chorused.

Hicks stood there and watched, absently folding his arms. He was non-believer. He was outsider. Not their leader as Samuel prescribed. Cameron sent them away to rest.

"What _do _you got for her?"

"Something I built a while ago for my father," Cameron said. "I'm glad I made one last house run before settling in here, or we wouldn't have it."

"Is that it?"

"Is what it?"

"You're gonna go and deal with her. You're done with me, right? I'm dismissed?"

"Hicks..."

Hicks raised a hand of his own. "Hey. It's okay." He smiled at her. Lying never felt so sweet.

Cameron smiled back, moving in to embrace him. Hicks' eyes widened for second in surprise before he gently, cautiously returned the favor. She looked up at him. "Stick with us, Hicks. I want you to live."

He said nothing. She hadn't been glaring all day, he realized.

She'd been sad. For him? He didn't know. He didn't care. The phone rang about three seconds later. Cameron hopped up slightly and pecked Hicks on the cheek, excused herself, and left.

Hicks stood there for awhile as the phone rang. When he picked it up, he brought it to his ear, cupped the phone between his face and shoulder, and spoke. "Yeah."

"Hicks, hello!" Nossbaum's wife.

"Hello."

"I was just calling to... uh, how are things over there?"

Hicks decided it would be untactful to mention that almost everyone involved had died over the course of the week. He said things were fine.

She laughed. "I know it's not too easy. Aand, uh, do you have, uh, any new leads? On Cuh-cuh... Cuh-Connor?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, you'll call as soon as you do, right? It's vital that you do."

"Of course."

"Well, I just called because... because I wanted to ask if you'd heard from... uh, David."

Hicks scratched his head, replacing the phone in his right hand. "Why would I, Amanda?"

"He hasn't returned with Max or Jerry from their bagel run."

"I dunno."

"He _never_ takes this long."

Hicks gritted his teeth, said nothing.

"Well, God and His Tools watch over them in any case, as They do all of us."

"Right."

"And speaking of which --and I know David is dealing with this-- I wanted to ask a favor of you..."

"Shoot." That sounded like a good idea, actually.

"Well, this Sarkissian... cruh-crime fellow, David was _talking_ about how stubborn the man could be, and I figured, uh, I figured he would need all the help he could get in convincing the man. David, that is. So I tried calling Sarkissian's number, b-but I received no signal. Perhaps... you would help?"

"I'll let Cameron handle it."

"Wonderful idea, Hicks! She knows muh-more about... well, not to disparage you, but she knows a bit more about the situation, is all I'm saying. Cameron's father, Daniel... uh, God and His Tools bless him, discussed it at length, so...

"I understand," Hicks said.

"We _need_ that computer, that Turk, so you can imagine it's a very delicate affair."

"What's the number?" Hicks reached into one of the many pockets aligned along his vest and kevlar uniform, retrieving a piece of paper and pen. He bent forward across to the desk the phone sat on, ripped off a strip from the page, and poised the pen to write.

Amanda Nossbaum told him the number. Hicks scribbled for a few seconds and wrote, in black bold over the number, **SARKISSIAN PHONE #**

"Thanks, I'll get right on it. What should I tell her?" Hicks laid the pen down.

"She, uh, should just vouch for David, essentially. We don't want to come across as too overbearing, hahaha."

"Sure. Uh..."

"Yes, goodbye, Hicks. We're expecting Samuel soon, how glorious! God and His Tools be with you and Him!"

"'Bye."

Phone down. Hicks scratched his chin for a little bit before he lifted the phone up and dialed the number he'd written down. Dial tone for a few seconds.

Man's voice over the phone. Grating, if genial. Hicks blinked rapidly, a little disturbed with his inner curtness all of a sudden. "Wi-Fi'd It Internet Cafe, free chat rooms, texting and gaming twenty four hours a day, you got any business that needs to be taken care of?"

Hicks blinked once more. Internet cafe?

"Uh. Yeah, is there a, uh... Sarkissian there?"

The man's tone changed immediately, becoming less protracted, cutting his words short. "Who is this?"

Hicks slammed the phone back down into its receiver.

--

**Reboot. **

**...**

**...**

**Complete. **

**Performing mandatory system diagnosis. (Alert! Critical shutdown suffered. Check for problems immediately.)**

**...**

**Complete.**

**All systems nominal. CPU functionality, slight malfunction. Emotional stimulus index, slight malfunction. Most problems reconciled. Negligible. **

**Updating mission status:**

**LOCATE PRIME SUBJECT JOHN CONNOR. ALL SECONDARY PRIORITIES RESCINDED. **

Not negligible. It was almost as if the system had found something, barely corrected it, and then thus called it corrected. The "problems," if they could be called that, were still present. Not corrected. Cameron's first act, once the system was open to her, would be to make sure that the slave system could never again take such full control as it had. She'd have to take the risk from now on of not being able to rely on her auxiliary systems.

They were mostly in place to prevent catastrophic reprogramming that was brought on by direct damage to chip integrity (psychological reasons for "going bad" were as of yet unsolvable.) And the chances of that happening? Low.

**Auditory sensors engaged. Visual sensors engaged. Tactile impact systems engaged. Olfactory sensors engaged. High impact alloy combat chassis at full integrity. Bionic shell: compromised. Negligible until infiltration mode engaged.**

Cameron's ears took in the world. A person in the room, walking back and forth, breathing regularly. Heart beating. Her eyes flashed open. A small dingy room with a single light and a few chairs. A woman. She was Cameron's dead-ringer. Cameron's skin became receptive to the sensations of touch. She could feel the ground underneath her; hardwood, scratchy and dusty, gleaned from some long ago oak tree, now destroyed. There were no restraints. They didn't bother? Her nose began to pick up scents; the room was dewy, ill maintained. It smelled of decay and dampness.

She watched the doppelganger, waiting.

**Motor functions... compromised. Signal incomplete. Alien device detected. REMOVE.**

Son of a bitch. Something was...

She couldn't move. Not an inch. She was as stiff as a corpse. Wait. Head?

She turned her head slightly to the left. Well, that worked. She blinked. Opened her mouth, closed. Nostrils twitched. Head was fine. Some device was preventing her from transmitting a signal to the rest of her body over the neural and remote networks. Isolation. She was stuck.

**Voice synthesizer engaged.**

"Hello?"

The woman paused. She was wearing a hodgepodge of kevlar and practical clothing, unlike the stark uniforms that characterized most of the other cultists. Her hair was done up in a ponytail, and her blue eyes fixed themselves on Cameron's prostrate body. She laughed. Low, rotten.

"I was hoping you wouldn't sound like me, too. And hey, I was right."

She was right. Her voice was a tad higher, with more lilt. Brought down to the right tone, though, and they'd sound very much alike. Possibly a coincidence. Cameron was confused.

But not too confused. It was, in fact, incredibly irrelevant to what she needed right then and there.

"If you let me go," Cameron said, "I won't kill you and everyone in here."

The woman cocked an eyebrow. Her face (and almost all her body, actually) was obscured in shadow, but that was rendered moot by Cameron's true-coloring scanners. A wasted dramaticism. It wouldn't be difficult to manipulate this woman. "You can't move, so I doubt that's actually possible." She worked a shrug in through her words.

"What have you fitted me with?"

"A device I built a few years ago. It contains your neural net strictly to your endoskull region and squelches remote signals." She smirked. "My dad was so proud when I showed him I'd made it."

Interesting that she knew so much. "Remove it."

"No," the woman said, as though explaining a simple concept to a young child. "You're not moving anywhere."

Cameron laid her head back. "Are you familiar with the phrase 'signing a death warrant?'"

"Yes." She tilted her head, confused. Perhaps she had not expected Cameron to use such unconventional phrasing... unconventional for a robot, that is.

"You just did."

She frowned, her features becoming crinkled and filled with paranoid worry. "You can't move, girlie."

"You are going to die. I am going to kill you when I am free."

The woman took a few steps forward; her face folded even harder, her eyes widening and lips snarling; anger. "You realize that sounds like bullshit when you're just laying there, right? Right? You're not gonna kill me."

She knelt forward on one knee and lowered her face down so that it was parallel with Cameron's; "You, on the other hand-"

Cameron swung her head upward, smashing her forehead against the woman's chin. She screamed and fell back on her buttocks, blood gushing from her chin. Cameron frowned. If only her skull had been a little lower...

"_You bitch!" _

Cameron was silent, staring wide-eyed at the woman's face as a generous supply of blood poured from the wound.

"I'll repeat my offer: you release me. I don't kill you. Do you understand?"

Evidently she did not, for she fled from the room a few seconds later, tears and blood flying from her face. Cameron blinked as the door slammed shut. Few seconds passed, with shrieks occupying them the whole way. Cameron stared at the door for a few seconds before turning her head to sweep around the room, searching the wooden walls for structural weak points.

--

John nearly leapt out of his seat as he heard the tiny reports of rain drops spattering over the top of the van. His shoulders tensed up sharply, sending a wave of pain through his muscles as his head jerked up to see what was wrong. When he noticed rivulets of rain slashing down the windshield, he let out a long sigh and settled back into his seat, keeping his hands firmly gripped around the wheel.

"You seem nervous." Michael's head was bowed down into a map and some assorted pieces of paper. Had been for several minutes, really. He couldn't have seen John's paranoia at work. Could he?

Wasn't even paranoia. He knew what bullets sounded like, and he didn't have friggin' PTSD (yet,) it was just the sudden noise, drawing him out of his mental lockbox that caused him to freak like that. Y'know, it was weird, he couldn't even remember half of what he'd been thinking about. Sometimes thoughts just revolve around your mind, sitting there. You understand them perfectly if you _feel_ them alone. When you turn your head to look at them, suddenly they don't seem quite as distinct as they were.

It was called day-dreaming. _Tap tap tap _went the rain.

"You're not?" John said.

Mike sniffed, and did not answer. Struck a chord? No idea. Of course _he_ was nervous. They were going into this blind. Sarah smacked him around for going into a police station with no intel. _This_ was like treading into the lion's den. You didn't know what the hell you were gonna find. Maybe there were a hundred more cultists. Perhaps it was a secret facility, deep underground that they were taking Cameron. More than a dozen Terminators on sight _at least, _armed with flesh-concealed plasma weapons.

What did they have? A submachine gun and two pistols, and not a lot of ammo for all of that.

_Well, when you put it like that, Johnny... _

"You think we're out of our depth... here?" John asked, wiping a hand over his mouth and keeping his eyes glued to the road as rain misted into his vision.

Michael turned his head up. "What?"

"I-I'm just asking, y'know? I wanna hear what you think."

_Tap. Tap. _

"If we're out of our depth?" He waited for the nod, got it, and grumbled. "Turn the van around if you're not completely certain that we can do this, John. If you are, then keep driving."

John tapped the steering wheel. "I'm not." Held up a finger. "I can't just leave her, though... to... I dunno. I dunno. You honestly think it's gonna be alright in the end?"

"Absolutely."

John scoffed. "Bullshit. Why?"

Mike cocked an eyebrow. "Thought you were dead-set on doing this, John."

"I am! Just explain to me why you think that!"

"What's the matter, think we're gonna die? You resigned to that, John?"

"No! Never, I mean..." He hissed and tapped his hand harder. "I'm just worried. I'm worried this isn't gonna work, and I... I want to hear, _from you_, why you think this'll work. Alright? Y'know, do that?"

Mike shrugged. _Dunno, Jack._

"You're fucking kidding me. Just a hunch, Mike? A fucking hunch? You think we're gonna go out and kick ass and take names and do all sorts of crazy shit to them, it's..." He hiccuped suddenly, voice breaking in mid-sentence. "Sorry. Mike, we're two kids with guns, I-I-... I want to rescue her, but... I don't know. Don't know. I'm just nervous, alright? We're doing this, definitely, it's just... I have this fucking feeling in my gut."

Mike turned a page in his hands and read it, raising his eyebrows. He didn't look up at John. "So you're nervous." He seemed so fucking unconcerned. "Doubting yourself?"

"Yeah! _Yeah,_ I am fucking nervous, Mike, how fucking smart of you to realize that! Hold on." He swept the steering wheel slightly, turning the van onto another road. Why? Well, it was something to do. He didn't know _where_ he was going. "I'm nervous! I don't want them to kill Cameron, and I don't want to _die_ while trying to rescue her! So tell me, reassure me, Michael! Tell me why I shouldn't be worried! Why is everything gonna be alright?!"

Mike looked over at his future superior. And shrugged again. "I really can't tell you, John. I have the same gut feeling you do; except that we'll be fine."

_Tap tap tap._

John shook his head. "Nice. Very nice. Useless, too." He was gonna run again. If he kept this up? Oh, it was clear as day. Maybe he should just stop _thinking_, and everything would be alright. In his own head, at least. Could still get shot. Could still die.

"John."

"What?"

"It's okay." He looked at him, slapping a hand over the papers. "Really, John." He smiled. John blinked and tilted his head. The fuck?

"Prove it."

"You're here." Some kind of icy sensation went down John's spine. "_That's_ how I know."

"Mike..."

Then _it_ came. The clincher. The whole money shot, really (oh, jeez.) Mike extended his hand before John could react and softly rubbed his palm against the teenagers face. John's eyes widened about as far as they'd ever been. He could have probably passed off as an alien, or something. What... what... Mike's palm felt... like... well, any palm, really. Sort of cold. That wasn't the fucking point, it was what he was _doing. _Mike spoke. "We'll be okay."

What... what... _holy crap. _John jerked his head back. "Get the hell off me."

Mike said nothing, merely staring. He followed John with his hand. "You like it. C'mon."

He smacked the hand away. Mike kept firm and didn't let that happen, though. John let out a moan of frustration. Suddenly that thing wasn't just "any palm" it was fucking frightening all of a sudden. "_Are you fucking kidding me?!"_

_Tap._

Mike shook his head.

John turned the steering wheel, shoved Mike's hand away again with his shoulder, and parked the van on the curb. He swung his whole torso back over to Mike, raising both his hands. "Mike. Don't do that. Okay?"

"Why not?" Didn't _sound_ impassioned or anything. That was freakier than him coming onto John in the first place.

"Cause I'll fucking punch you in the face?!"

Mike lowered his arm, moving his hand over to John's midsection. He pressed it against him and pushed slightly. "C'mon, John. Let's go." It was a whisper. His whole fucking body was all bent, tense, it all screamed _hey, hey, man! MAN! You wanna go?! _

John smacked the arm away, slamming it into the plastic seat. He felt like there should be music playing. Something like death metal, to complete a fucked up scene like this. Mike grunted slightly in pain, but otherwise? He kept smirking. Like he was unsurprised by this. John cocked back his right hand to punch... if he had to. "_No,_ we don't 'come on', Mike. _I _don't come on, because I'm not a goddamned _fag_ like you are, okay?"

"Really now?" He withdrew. Jesus Christ.

"Yeah, fuckin' believe it, okay?" Jesus Christ, was this conversation _seriously_ happening? He could NOT expect John to do something like that, _holy_ crap. He blinked and ran a hand over his forehead. "Look, sorry, I'm... uh... I-I'm flattered and all, okay? But seriously... _dude... _I'm not gonna take that shit. It's just not gonna happen. Not ever, okay?"

Michael nodded. "No doubts?"

"None."

And he grinned. "Great. That make you mad, John?"

John cracked his knuckles, as much an answer to that as any. "Yeah. Yeah, it did. What is this, psychology or some shit?"

"Shut up. You were prepared to beat the stuffing out of me for coming on to you, John. So why the fuck don't you use some of that anger to get rid of your _other_ doubts? We'll be fine. We're gonna rescue Cameron. I just found out where the place is five minutes ago."

John blinked. And absently winced as rain continued to pour down... now in earnest over the steel van. Tappidy tap tap tap. John shivered. This whole thing was too... all over the place.

"Or where they're hiding, anyway. A library. Look, point is, since it was _so_ easy to get angry at me, it'll be a cinch to feel just as mad about these guys stealing your mechanical girlfriend, right?"

"That's, that's..."

"Too big? Too scary? It's all relative, John. The point is that I don't doubt the outcome of this, which is that we knock the shit out of those guys. John, we're gonna be alright. You shouldn't doubt too much, or else you won't do anything at all. Okay?"

"I can't do that. I can't not second-guess myself. But... yeah, I'll just stop freaking out, I guess." John bit his lip and looked back out to the road. Sarah told him. Day after day after day _you are not perfect. _Not perfect. Take every precaution. Examine every possibility. Don't take undue risks. This was an undue risk, but it was one he needed to take. He couldn't just abandon Cameron.

Mike frowned and waved his hand. "Drive..."

John shuddered. Mike said _about_ one thing useful during that whole thing. Be mad. At them. And y'know, he was right. It _was_ a cinch. "Tell me where." Soon as they got there, he'd do some planning. They'd do some killing. Get Cameron back. Plan and then execute. Simple in theory. Simple in practice if you detached yourself, like Michael. John wasn't sure if he could do that... but he was damned if he wouldn't try.

"You'll wanna turn the van around, it's back the other way," Mike muttered.

He pulled the transmission up to drive and did a three-point turn to bring them up in the other direction. Shivered again, thinking about what _nearly _(he didn't really mean it, though, right? Right?) happened. "You didn't mean any of that, right?"

Mike chuckled as he fiddled with the pages, pulling them all into a neat pile. "No. Not now."

John said nothing. Oh, jeez.

--

The woman returned twenty minutes later, right on the button. Instead of a smug expression she wore an adhesive bandage now. The door carefully shut in her wake and she took a seat in the center of the room, staring down at Cameron. Cameron focused in on her; she had nothing else better to do, having categorized every breakable object in the room that would allow her greater liberty in escaping this place. It turned out to be all of the objects, actually.

"All I wanted to do was talk," the woman said.

"Release me."

Nothing. The woman folded her arms, folded her legs, and just watched. She seemed to be considering something, given the way she looked up at the ceiling and scrunched her face. Cameron could hear a low, almost inaudible whisper. Inaudible to most, of course. Even if you were close to the woman, it would be incoherent mumbling.

Cameron could understand it, though; "Talk to her or no... wonder if it matters or no..."

"Does what matter?" Cameron Phillips said.

"Huh?" The woman shuddered. "What?"

"Does what matter?"

"I... didn't say anything."

"Yes you did. Out with it, or I won't speak to you at all."

A short pause. Cameron sighed. "Five seconds-"

"I was gonna ask if you were confused about my knowledge of your systems."

Odd question. If she was putting it out there, however, it probably meant that she was receptive to the idea of _telling._ Could be useful. Cameron Phillips nodded. "I am. How _are_ you so knowledgeable about my systems?"

"Before I tell you, listen to me... whatever your name is, whatever they call you... I'm only saying all of this because I need to get it off my chest. That's all. I have to tell someone. I can't tell Hicks. I just need to put it out there. And for you, it's not gonna matter what I tell you. You understand?"

The last part was enigmatic, but Cameron nodded once more. She'd be lying to herself if she wasn't at least curious.

--

"I'm an engineer. Sort of like my father, I guess. When I was eight or nine, I said I wanted to be a singer. Or a ballerina. Wasn't pretty enough for either and my dad was aware of that. He was always conscious about how I looked. He told me this: brains like yours shouldn't be wasted on frivolities. Ha. I didn't even know what 'frivolities' meant, which I guess shows how much I knew back then. He was really just trying to say that I was ugly, and he always wanted to plan my career for me. It was sort of an obsession for him.

He wanted me to follow up on a passion of his, but it was something he didn't really get to take advantage of when he was younger, because... it was so outrageous. Robots, robot. It was robots. He loved robots. In the late eighties he got employed by this high-tech firm called Cyberdyne, and they were all into robots. Used to be computers, trying to outdo IBM, Microsoft, that sort of stuff, but they weren't very good at it. Dad told me that all of that changed when the nineties came around.

Suddenly they were dealing with robots. His favorite thing. He read Isaac Asimov when he was younger, and the idea of it just fascinated the hell out of him. He wanted to build his very own robots, but y'know, you just couldn't do that before the nineties, right? Or recently, even. But he told me that it was possible. Completely possible. He said he was gonna give me opportunities he'd never had, make me famous. An engineer. Eventually he wanted to employ me at Cyberdyne, help them... build up the stuff of the future, all that corporate bullshit talk.

It was easy. I had no friends. My mom died when I was two. He was the only person in my life, and I followed everything he said. Had nothing else. So he gave me books, first juvenile, getting more mature as time went on. When I was twelve I started reading Asimov, just like he did. It was just to foster my interest, he said. The real stuff would come when the AI got better, more workable. They had this guy, Miles Dyson, working day and night on their advanced technology. Any day, dad said. He'd already put in a special request to let me tour the labs, introduce me to the whole terminology. That sort of thing. Sorry if I'm rambling, but you'll just have to listen. Not like you can't.

Well, none of that happened. Not yet. Cyberdyne bottomed up in 1995 after, ah, your friends blew the place to hell and back. Dyson was murdered, the research was destroyed... all of the investors pulled funding, no one wanted anything to do with the company anymore. They went bankrupt, got subsidized by the military, although I don't think they've been able to do much with that stuff yet. They call it Cyber Research Systems. My dad hardly cared, you know. He was more than willing to continue from scratch... he put in an application with the military, he said he was more than willing to submit to any test, any background check, whatever. Willing to move? Yep. Didn't care one ounce about my wants, although back then I would have been more than willing to go along with it.

But one day... it was so funny, this military interview person... uh, guy, I guess, was home, and my dad told him he wasn't interested. Naturally the guy was shocked, but he was in the military, so he just said 'sure' and left. I asked my dad what happened. He was so enthusiastic about it, y'know? I was sixteen at the time, I think, and by that time I was every ounce as obsessed with robots as he was. Like I could do anything else. I wore milk bottle glasses, my face was full of... well, anyway. I was curious. He said his friend David was starting a company in Sacramento. He said it was more well equipped than Cyberdyne itself to do all sorts of things, so we didn't have to worry about CRS. Robots. They were all about robots, he said. Sacramento _Robotics. _I was thrilled. He was thrilled, but his was of a sort I found... uh, kind of creepy, actually. He was really enthusiastic about it, almost... almost fanatical. We moved. The lab was amazing, almost as if it had been set up twenty years ago instead of less than one. Really wealthy investors, dad said. I met one of them.

His name was Samuel. No other name. Just that. The lab was part research, part internship and all that. Most of the research was purely into robots, not really artificial intelligence. How they move, generic interactions... nothing that could think for itself, obviously. To be honest, I doubt it was really the point. The whole thing is a front. Most of the employees think they're working for a reputable place, sort of like in Japan. I'm getting a bit ahead of myself, though.

Dad let me work in his office. He started to give me things to work on, concepts to think about. I was still learning. I worked night and day... his stupid classical music blaring so fuckin' loud."

Cameron Phillips spoke up. "Frédéric Chopin?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Proceed."

"Uh... okay. My dad eventually gave me a model to work on. He said 'Cameron, this is really important. I want you to become an expert at this model. An expert. Work on it every day, even if you know it left from right.' You know what it was? It was you, my friend. Not you, obviously, but one of you. A Terminator. It was a completely rendered computer graphic, full 3D range. Every part was labeled, with function, specifications, all of it. Heh. I thought it was a proposed model, or something that was being planned for a future release, because it was... it was the most advanced thing I'd ever seen. It was scary at times. And you know, the only thing that wasn't fully labeled was the CPU. Just that, in fact. CPU. Nothing about how... about how much was packed into that thing. How much intelligence.

Well, anyway. I _did_ become an expert at it. It took me about a year to fully recite every piece from memory to my father, but I was able to do it. He said great. Now if only you weren't so fucking ugly. I think that was 2000, by the way. He said that, y'know? That was my reward. I guess he was in a horrible mood, but it... it was so horrifying to hear that from my own father. You'd think he'd be more compassionate than that? He raised me and... I think it's because I was beginning to know more about his favorite brand of robot than he himself did. He was becoming more corporate minded, more... more... something else, minded, really. He was jealous. So he took that out on me.

A day later, I told him I was gonna leave if he couldn't accept me. If he was gonna continue to act like a petulant baby. He_ loved _pretty things, you know. Heh. When... when I talked to him, I wanted to call him a hypocrite, because of that hideous yellow hat he always wore. But anyway, he had paintings in his office. Art was like his favorite subject besides robots. Every painting in his office was either of a beautiful woman or some apocalyptic setting. The Last Judgment by Michelangelo, and another, a painting of... it looked recent. It was even signed. Signed by Samuel, in fact. I didn't know he was a painter, but there you go. It showed a blue... very blue landscape, and thousands of destroyed buildings. There was fog everywhere. And in the sky, nothing but ash. And in the middle of all that, some kind of tank rolling around through the landscape.

That's where you're from, isn't it?

Anyway, it was a weird mix. Dad wanted a pretty daughter, so he filled up his office with substitutes. I rifled through his office one day, and... heh. I can laugh about it now, but right then I just about threw up. Magazines, girlie. Girl magazines. Little girls. Stuff on his computer, it... freaked me out, Cameron. I never talked to him about it. I guess he was sort of a fetishist. Not to _me,_ obviously, but I can see how his want for a more beautiful daughter would cause him to do stuff like that.

Cameron spoke. "I have a question."

"Go ahead."

"You and I are a ninety percent match, Cameron Forsythe. I am classified by most human males as beautiful." She let that hang in the air.

"You're right. I was about to get to that, robot. After I told him that I would leave, he said he'd make it all better. He'd pay for a plastic surgery. Very expensive. Supervised by him. He'd be there, basically guiding the knife. Every year of my life, I knew my dad hated the way I looked. I hated the way I looked. I agreed. Before the operation, he told me that he'd been inspired by a woman he met in 1999. A teenager. If I ever saw her, I should thank her. Ring any bells?"

Cameron nodded. "Yes."

"Good. Now it's your turn. Then I'll finish and I'll tell you what I had in mind for you."

"I met Daniel Forsythe and a friend of his in this city. I was looking for someone."

"Connor?"

"No," Cameron Phillips lied. "An engineer like yourself. Except he's one of the good guys. Or was. I never found him. I encountered your father in a restaurant, and he was debating the possibility of masking a robot soldier's presence by using artificial skin. His friend thought it was impossible, due to robotic motor functions. Unlike humans, machines have a wider variety of motor possibilities, because we do not experience pain. Theoretically my arm should be able to extend fully round, and the man cited this fact, which would tear a robot's artificial skin. I interjected, saying that a simple program in the robots CPU, much like the one that exists in mine, can restrict such movement and save the robot's disguise from being found out.

They both looked confused, obviously. Daniel appeared enraptured. I decided I'd made a mistake in involving myself, so I left."

A white lie to John and Sarah and Derek. The picture of Daniel Forsythe in her system files wasn't imbedded. It wasn't there from the beginning. She'd snapped it. The man was a computer person, after all. She had literally dozens of such photographs, in case they became useful towards Sarah's crusade against Skynet.

The _problem_ had been explaining how the photo got there. If she said it exactly as it happened, Derek would have suspected her of having consorted with the enemy. Sarah would have been suspicious. John would have been as forgiving and naive as ever, but shaken. Cameron didn't want any of that. So she told a lie when Derek Reese found that picture of the man in the yellow hat. It was in there from the beginning!

Cameron Forsythe nodded slowly. "Good... yeah... that probably explains it. He must have thought you were some angel sent down by God. His inspiration. Beautiful, knowledgeable about his perfect obsession. He had your description etched into his mind, y'know. I look exactly like you."

"No. Ninety percent match. There are differences."

"Doesn't matter. Ever since that happened, I always wanted to meet you. And now there you were, a bombed wreckage on the Connor's doorstep. I couldn't believe it."

She paused for a few seconds.

"Thank you. How lovely to realize that in the end, I'm just as artificial as you. Kind of makes things full circle."

Cameron said nothing.

"Well. Anyway. If you were wondering how I knew so much about you guys, that's how. I got bored. I did as dad told me. I spent time with you every night, going over your weaknesses, specifications. And I felt _great. _I went out. I had zero social skills, but I felt more confident than I'd ever been in my life. I felt empowered. I started to not just examine you, but _change_ you. I dismantled the model. I made devices which could disable you, I tinkered with your legs, arms, trying to make them faster. I tried removing your torso and replacing it with one that would withstand rockets. Almost none of that worked, but _one thing_ did. The thing that's keeping you locked up right now, girlie. I made that. And when I had the concept, I _physically_ made it. Showed it to dad and he smiled and told me I was perfection. _Perfection. _I felt so proud.

In 2006 I joined SRL as my dad's assistant researcher. Something shady was going on. There were people tromping around in black suits with machine guns constantly. Some of the other employees were weird. I thought there was a drug ring, or a secret cult, or something just illegal, y'know, going on there. Dad acted like nothing was wrong, which made me think he was involved. _Everyone_ had an unhealthy obsession with machines and robots. So did I. Heh.

Ah. A few months went by. Dad's old intern, Andy Goode turned up dead. Before he died he sent a letter to dad, telling him that he was gonna send money to dad when he received a military contract for the thinking computer he'd been building. It was meant to be a present, for y'know, dad being his boss for two or whatever years. What a gentleman, right? It caught dad's interest. He told Samuel about it. Told him about a computer called the Turk.

Samuel went berserk. He ordered dad to head over there and recover it. Well, he did. He took me with him. And Samuel, to guard him. We booked a hotel and dad asked around, found out from a guy named Dmitri that he'd sold it in exchange for some money. A guy named Sarkissian. Sarkissian wanted to sell it off to someone who could pay a lot of money, and they were gonna arrange a deal. Sarkissian sent in thugs to keep us safe, because dad was worried, y'see. Well. You guys came two days after that. And you killed everyone. And one of you killed my father. Sort of makes you think, doesn't it?

Skynet. I found that word that day. Some poorly made pamphlet. You know why dad showed me that thing? That model? So I could become familiar, girlie! Familiar with my _allies. _That was quite a day, lemme tell you. Samuel nearly got himself blown up, of course, and he called me and explained everything in detail. He said I had to hurry up and remove his chip, because he couldn't move. And... it's history from there. I helped repair him at the police station. Hicks came to me a little after that and told me to ditch those guys. I said sure at the time, but you know...

I can't just leave them. They're the only thing I have left. They respect me, because they know I'm more knowledgeable about the Terminators than most of them. It feels good. I'm not sure if it's God's work, like everyone claims, but... it's all I have. Hicks is too scared. Samuel's given us all of this stuff, funded our rifles, the research, everything. All a front except the actual group activities, but... you know? Samuel's promised us life. And I want to live."

She fell silent.

Cameron spoke up immediately. "Do you feel better?"

"Yeah."

"Thank for you explaining. Release me."

Cameron Forsythe continued on. "I decided I can't let you and your human pals screw everything up. Screw _us_ up. So I'm gonna try and get rid of Connor. He's the only important one. Getting rid of him would save us all. I mean... there's... gah, forget it. You wouldn't get it. The point is, he has to go."

"Good luck with that."

Cameron Forsythe smiled. "You don't understand. I'm not gonna do anything. I've learned everything there is to learn about you guys. Programming shouldn't be hard to figure out. I'm not gonna _kill_ John Connor, girlie.

You are."

Author's Note: Second season today. Can't wait to see what I need to retcon!


	14. The Soldier

**Away**

Chapter Fourteen: The Soldier

Cameron Phillips stared at her doppelganger. _You are. You will. You shall... _go directly against all of her programming and kill John Connor?

What naiveness. What an intoxicating innocence, to assume that this woman who'd only dealt with models could hope to reprogram her, delete _every_ positive reference of John, delete all the archived subroutines in place that assured a constant protection of his person, to pursue him when he went missing, _to alleviate both physical and emotional_ _dangers_, no less!

"I doubt that," Cameron said.

Cameron Forsythe tilted her head sharply, sniffling. "I'm going to reprog-"

"I know what you intend, and I know you won't be able to make it happen, Cameron. You lack the experience."

She got up. Sprang up, really. Perhaps she would try to bend over Cameron's prostrate form again, granting the Terminator another chance at breaking her skull. "_I have more experience on you than anyone else! _I know more than David, than my father, than _anyone!"_

"Not everyone," Cameron said. For the first time since the conversation began she called up her facial profiling index, selected a smile of proper smugness with the right degree of arrogance and used it.

"Who?" The woman snapped.

"John Connor." A bit of a lie, although from Cameron's admittedly time-travel distorted perspective it was true.

Forsythe grinned nastily. "What're you saying, that he'd reverse it if you ever went bad?"

"No. Just that he knows more than you."

"All he knows how to do is blow _you_ things up, same with his mother. All he knows how to do is tear something down, not build something up, you _bitch._"

Cameron cocked an eyebrow. "You're part of a group that wants to bring about an apocalypse. How are you any different?"

Cameron Forsythe gawked at her. How easily that smug facade disappeared... She shut her eyes tightly for several seconds, seeming to take in breath at cool, disciplined intervals. Trying to calm herself down, it seemed.

"That doesn't matter," she eventually said. "I'm going to take that plastic little thing out of your skull and tweak with it until you have your hands wrapped around that asshole's tiny neck." She walked over to a table at the other end of the interrogation room and grabbed something off of it. Cameron craned her neck up to see what it was.

Plastic and dull, grey metal in her hands. Box cutters. Already?

"Wait."

Cameron Forsythe shook her head. She returned to the Terminator and gingerly bent forward, holding the knife out.

"You won't be able to do it. You've just dealt with models, Cameron, you can't handle CPUs. I promise, it's above your level. It's not like flicking a switch. I swear."

"Shut up."

"I'm only telling you the truth." Cameron jerked her head back as the box cutters touched her scalp. Forsythe groaned and tried to keep the Terminator's head steady with her free hand. Cameron bounced her head back into the knife and rebounded against Forsythe's hand, forcing it against the floor with a thud.

"_Shit!"_

No breakage. Damn.

"Listen, bitch, this is only prolonging it. I'll get the taser and feed you a constant charge if you want, _it's coming either way."_

"No it's not," Cameron said quickly. "It's not. You're going to fail. You've just dealt with models, Cameron, you can't handle CPUs."

Her options were rapidly running out. Forsythe was right; this was only prolonging the inevitable. Cameron jerked her head away again, ruining the woman's concentration. She let out a growl of exasperation. "Fine. I'll get the fucking taser, you can just sit right there and start brainstorming on how best to kill your precious savior." She pushed herself up, dropped the knife, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

As predicted, Cameron Phillips laid there, as motionless as ever, as helpless as ever, feeling a _brief_ relief she couldn't even begin to describe, let alone reconcile with herself.

She looked at the fallen blade.

--

"Where's the stun gun?"

Hicks turned his eyes away from the pages of _"On Death and Dying, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross," _and found Cameron Forsythe standing above him, hands balled into fists at her hips.

"You look pissed," he said. About twenty feet away, Ray the Fanatic coughed.

"Where's the fucking taser?" She bent forward and glared into his eyes.

"The car."

"Wonderful." She turned to leave, positively dripping with exasperation. Hicks blinked. What the hell happened in that room?

"Cameron?"

No response. Her feet made loud stamping sounds. Oh, Christ... He slapped the book down and stood up from the desk. "Cameron!"

"What?!" Full stop, loud crashing noise. Books flying. Oh, CHRIST.

"Mother..." Hicks took off at a run, hearing a similar crashing noise as Ray the Fanatic attempted to follow Hicks' lead and failed. Hicks sprinted down two aisles and found Cameron sprawled out in front of a book case, a few leather bound volumes in various dramatic positions around her. Open. Closed. Sort of open and facing down, hinged upwards by its individual covers. Hicks had to suppress a snort. The way she looked, the way the scene looked, you could make a_ painting_ out of it.

"You alright?" Hicks asked.

Ray the Fanatic groaned in the background, forgotten by all, untended to by all.

Cameron pulled her head up and stared daggers at Hicks. A book had landed straight on her chest, labeled in big red letters _"Tips on Anger Management." _A subtitle ran underneath. Hicks had to slap a hand over his mouth now, wincing as he tried to dispel a very strong case of the giggles.

"I-I'm sorry," he gasped, running over and kneeling. "Here-"

"Don't fucking touch me," Cameron said, pushing the book off from her. She pushed herself up onto her feet and stood there amidst the fallen debris, shaking slightly all over.

"Cameron..." Hicks frowned. He hated it when people made him feel bad, and this was hardly an exception. What was the point, though? By tomorrow he'd be out of here. "What's the matter?"

She kept wiping her kevlar uniform, as though dusting it off. Or cleaning it. She didn't look at him. "N-nothing. I'm just a little tense right now, okay? I need to shut that thing down."

"Why?" Hicks looked back towards the interrogation room door, half expecting to see Cameron's robotic counterpart coming for them right now.

"So I can reprogram her. Repurpose her to hunt for Connor instead of protect him." She smirked. "Good plan, huh?"

Hicks scratched his head. "You sure you can do it?"

She stopped smirking.

Hicks decided that a change of subject wouldn't quite be so bad right about now; "Amanda called, by the way."

She stared at him, perhaps not too willing to let that question go. What the _hell_ happened in that room? Hicks tilted his head at her, meeting her glare. If she wanted to do that kind of shit, he was more than willing to oblige. They watched each other for a few seconds, their gazes becoming less and less casual and more on the order of "I'm gonna kick your ass in a minute." Cameron looked pissed, and, quite frankly, Hicks felt himself spoiling for a fight. He felt nothing for her, despite what she probably thought (and felt;) he could afford this. Could she?

They didn't come to blows, as it turned out. There was no reason to. Not yet, anyway. Cameron relented first, shaking her head as her gaze softened. "Uhh, why? Why'd she called? Call, rather."

"She wants you to call Sarkissian to help David convince him to hand over the Turk, I guess." He pointed back toward the red phone sitting on the desk a few meters to the left. "I wrote the number down. It's an internet cafe."

Cameron frowned. "She give you the wrong number?"

"No. I wrote it down just the way she said it."

"Wouldn't it be easier to meet him in person, then?"

"Huh?"

She shrugged. "If Sarkissian is operating at an electronics place, then..."

"... That may be where the Turk is," Hicks finished, smiling. Hicks couldn't be described as the sharpest pencil in the pencil box, but he wasn't the dullest either.

Cameron nodded. "Exactly. Feel like coming for a ride?"

"I thought you wanted to..." Hicks rubbed his forehead. "Uh. I'd better stay here. No telling what she might do, y'know. Where're you going?"

They resumed walking, leaving the mess of fallen books where it lay. Ray the Fanatic came charging in a minute later, only to find the place empty.

"To this internet cafe. What's it called?"

"'Wi-Fi'd It.' If David was having trouble then they might not be... well, y'know, all that receptive to dealing with you, Cameron."

She shook her head. "That's why I wanted you to come. I don't intend to negotiate."

Hicks stopped. "What, you're gonna go in guns blazing?"

"Not unless I have to, no. But if David can't get this guy with honeyed words then I'm just gonna do it myself. Easier that way."

Hicks shrugged and folded his arms. "Well, good luck to ya."

Cameron stopped walking herself. She turned and watched him for a second, head cocked, eyes low and... almost damaged seeming. "You're really not coming?"

Hicks shook his head. "Nope. Like I said, good luck. I'll call you if anything comes up." He walked over to her and shook her hand, a quick pump pump. He was all smiles. Having her away and possibly dead would certainly make things easier when he got out of this nuthouse.

"Oh. Okay. Uh... just keep an eye on the place, then?"

"Yep."

She smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry I acted like such a bitch to you, that thing in there is just so... it doesn't matter anymore. Just keep an eye on her."

"Will do."

They stared at one another for a few seconds in silence, Hicks with his arms folded up and Cameron looking like she wanted to say a lot more than what'd been said. Hicks waved her off. A day ago and they'd been cuddling. Now he wanted nothing to do with her. Amazing how things change. She was heading off on a suicide mission, and he didn't even care.

Cameron scratched her head, turned, and walked off into the hallway which connected with the other side of the library, brown pony tail swinging behind her like a pendulum. She pulled one of the side doors open with a slight tug and disappeared past it, heading down the stairs, hands grasping the sidearm on her hip.

"Good luck!" he found himself yelling.

She poked back to the side of the door, smiling beautifully at him, as if he'd made her day.

"Right." And then... gone. Christ, if they'd met in even slightly more sane circumstances... man, who knew? He stood there for a bit, head turned downward as he thought to himself in silence.

That was the last time he ever saw her.

--

John watched the landscape of derelict structures with some apprehension. It was a field of grey and whitewashed buildings, mostly warehouses and factories. The occasional tenement building. A lot of it looked seriously old as it started to sharpen in appearance; they were pretty much driving straight into one of the older disused districts, a breeding ground for gangs, homeless people, shady business in general. John's apprehension didn't really come from its nature, though. He could remember shacking in a place like this when he was ten, having left some family whose surname escaped him right now. They usually did.

Anyway, he slept in a factory along with some homeless people. They weren't half bad, sharing food with him, talking to him when he wouldn't shut up... generally being nice. Not much other than that, of course, but John tended to measure success when it came to on-the-run living on two things: how often you were taken advantage of, and how often you were put in danger because of the drifters you were around. He always cleared out when it looked like one of those two things were about to get violated.

It was funny. He probably would have ended up using those rules for his _current_ escape if Cameron hadn't finally caught up with him.

His apprehension came from the whole structuring of the place, the nature of it all. There were lots of buildings, and a lot of them were empty and disused. That meant one very big, very dangerous thing: no security. If the Skynet cult was based around these parts, then who knew how many snipers they could have stationed around, how many barracks', security checkpoints... It was all a big unknown.

With luck no one would make a fuss, cause they _were_ driving in one of the cult's vehicles. That'd probably deter most lookouts and the odd patroller, unless they had binoculars, which would...

Here he was, fucking worrying again. _Exactly _what Michael told him not to friggin' do. How could he not worry, though? It wasn't as if he could just believe it would all work out in the end if he went in with a confident smile, goddamnit!

"Get off," John muttered, shaking Mike's hand off his shoulder. "I'm fine, honestly."

Mike drew back a bit into his seat, holding the hand in his other. Like it was special, or something. John shivered. "Sure thing," Mike said. He turned his eyes down to the map he'd extracted out of a bunch of documents he'd found in the glove compartment. "Uh, turn right when you get the opportunity."

John swung the wheel gently towards the right.

He bit his lip. "I dunno why you keep doing that, that, because, y'know, it's okay. I'm fine. I don't need to be comforted."

"I believe you, sir."

"Don't call me that. Seriously."

Mike looked at him and smirked.

Their surroundings changed little when John turned the van onto the next street. It seemed to be pretty much the same in any direction, except from here John could see the glittering towers of L.A. proper off in the distance. There were hardly any cars around except a tiny blue one that chugged on toward them. John kept his eyes on it as he opened his mouth. "Uh, you recognize anything?"

"Yeah. That's the car they used to escape."

John blinked. He'd been asking about the buildings, but- "Oh, fuck, really?"

"Yeah." Mike leaned forward, watching the sedan carefully.

"Whad'ya see?" John tried to look out himself, but the roads were water-logged and slippery from the recent rainfall, which demanded most of his concentration to keep them from swerving out of control. So he only got a glimpse of the car as it flashed by, suddenly occupying the rear view mirror, where he couldn't make out shit about the driver. "Well? Anyone?"

Mike shrugged. "A woman, I guess. I noticed her leaving that club you were in." He looked at John. John took a glance and caught a predatory smirk on the resistance soldier's face. "Let's get her."

"_Hell _no, Mike! She could let them know we're coming if we, y'know, suddenly start following her, right?"

"She could also know what we're about to deal with."

"Yeah, well, surprise is all we have and _we_'re not gonna waste it, okay?"

Mike nodded. "Alright. Whatever you say, sir."

John didn't bother to tell him off this time. He gaped at him, sure. He glared, sure. Might have sighed, sure. But he didn't tell him off. He was listening to John's orders. Almost like he made an express point of it. That felt...

Weird.

They drove on. John stared warily up at the clouds hanging over L.A., dark and bulging as they were with unshed rain. Rain brought fog sometimes, which could work in their favor. Make their approach more stealthy. But it was also a fucking inconvenient thing to operate in. Rain messed with guns, made you miserable if you had a reaction to it all, etcetera. For every positive there is a negative. You just gotta judge which advantage is worth pursuing.

"How much further?" He asked.

"Not too much," Mike said. "We should probably be able to see it by now."

John cleared his throat. "Okay, I'm gonna park us for a sec, and I'll get what we're gonna need from the back. It's two pistols and an MP5. Which one you want?"

"How much ammo?"

"A few boxes, mostly nine milli FMJ." He pulled the van up onto the nearby curb and pushed the transmission to park.

Mike grunted. "They're wearing mostly armor, so that's lucky on us. Go get em'."

John pushed his door open and ran around to the side, nearly slipping twice on the asphalt. It was mostly from excitement, really. Here they were, planning this like a couple of bank robbers or some shit. It felt strangely empowering. He knew that feeling wouldn't last long, because given what good ol' Murphy and his Laws said, no plan ever survives first contact with the enemy. Ever.

Still, at least they _were_ planning.

He pulled the back doors open and stepped inside. The ammunition, true to word and experience, was still there. A sophisticated gun rack hung on the left side, holding two Beretta 9mm pistols and a Heckler and Koch MP5. A box labeled in black sharpie read "AMMO" underneath that. On top of the box and tacked onto the gun rack were two white placards proclaiming "DO NOT TOUCH: EVIDENCE." Probably intended for the oncoming CSI crews. John smirked and pulled both of them off, leaving them to flutter to the floor of the van. He grabbed the two Berettas and slung them into the hem of his jeans. He took a few experimental steps like that, found that the pistols did only a minimum of painful chaffing, and grabbed the MP5 in his right hand, the box of ammo in the other. Took a few more steps around, hugging the box closer to his chest. He'd survive.

Carefully balancing the box of ammo --a false move had the uncomfortable chance of being the end of him, what an irony--, John bumped the van doors shut one by one and hobbled back over to the cabin. He tapped his head twice against the window. Mike looked over and guffawed at the load he was carrying.

John stooped down, put down the MP5, got back up, and tapped his middle finger against the window, smiling sweetly.

Mike only laughed harder. He bent over the driver's seat and opened the door for John. John retrieved the MP5 and finally settled down into his chair, groaning. "Holy fuck, that hurts."

"Huh?"

John handed him the box of ammo, used his free hand to draw out one of the pistols that had been digging painfully into his hip. "Enjoy," he growled, tossing Michael the weapon. "Want the other one?"

Mike slipped the magazine out of the Beretta, checked it, and loaded it back in, clicking the action. "Whad'ya mean?"

John made a gun sign with his two hands, jerking them back rhythmically "Cowboy style, huh?" He grinned.

"I don't follow."

John's grin slipped off like a wet dish towel. He coughed. "Uh, y'know, using two pistols at the same time? Double the firepower?" Jesus Christ, was he actually trying to _sell_ dual wielding now?

"Oh!" Mike chuckled. "That's funny, yeah."

John winced.

"I can barely aim with my left hand, hehe. Do they actually do that sometimes?"

John held his face in his hand. "Only in movies." He sighed. "I'm driving, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

--

The brunette, perky, red-drenched receptionist looked up and flashed an obviously practiced grin. "Hello, sir! Welcome to the Sacramento Robotics Lab! Do you need anything?"

Derek Reese smiled. "Sure do. I left my coat here the other night. It should be in your staff room." Derek brushed a few motes of dust off his coat.

The receptionist's grin disintegrated, and she raised a listless finger towards Derek's clothing, perhaps to indicate that it was quite obvious that a coat already existed in his possession. Derek tilted his head, smiling harder. Like a shark.

She sagged. "Stay here, sir. I'll be right back with your coat."

Derek gave her a thumbs up. She slowly plodded her way into a steel back door, towards the end of the pristine, marble coated lobby. Everything had a distinct shiny quality to it in here, whether it was the plants, the well-pressed uniforms of the security guards, the motivational posters...

All slightly irritating. Derek waited tersely for the receptionist to disappear from sight and he flipped himself over her desk, checking the computer terminal. He turned his eyes up for a split second to check the lobby for any newcomers, found none, and started to type rapidly.

The computer had a simplistic, albeit glitzy search system. **Enter query and we'll do our best to come up with an answer for you! **

He typed in "D. Nossbaum, office."

The search menu fell away, replaced with a blue screen and a white progress circle in the middle. It swirled continuously as it loaded information. Tiny reminders of the virtues of SRL periodically popped up at the lower middle of the screen. _Working together with Los Angeles' ZeiraCorp to bring consumers a better world. _

Alongside the accolade was a brief flash photo of some redhead in a white suit. She disappeared before Derek could get a good look at her. He tapped his fingers on the side of the monitor. Any minute now and that bitch would realize the whole coat trick was a ruse, and then she'd be back. Tap tap.

Age of the fucking internet and it was this slow? Jesu-

The blue screen disappeared. In its place came the results for Derek's query, the top one listed "D. Nossbaum profile. CEO." He clicked it.

**David Nossbaum, Sacramento Robotics Laboratory chief executive officer. **

Another photo. Derek scrolled down from it. There was nothing left to really know about David Nossbaum, certainly not the way he looked.

**Contact info: (916) 749-4418**

**Office: 1806, top floor. **

**Hours: 9 AM to 6 PM, Wednesdays thru Fridays, appointments only. **

Derek closed out, coming back to the main screen. _1806. Keep that in your head. _There was an email ticker at the top left. Derek grumbled and turned to check the area again. Still clear. He clicked the mail box graphic.

**re: Samuel**

**from: management**

Clickity.

**1:15 PM**

**Andrea, I just got a call from Samuel, he's at the airport, coming on fast. He'll want to speak with David but we're having trouble reaching him right now. Amanda's on top of it. Just send Samuel up to David's office and he'll know what to do. **

**Samuel will be wearing a full body suit, complete with a mask. PLEASE do not ask him about it, just follow the order as you were given it. Thanks.**

**Miles Benitt, Theoretical Testing Sector. **

Derek stared at the screen for a few seconds, the gears in his head turning wildly. How much time could he afford? Checked his watch; _1:20. _He set the email as "new" and went back to the search engine. "Miles Benitt, office."

The blue screen came back. Derek tapped his foot. That name rung a bell... it was from John's original prowling on the SRL website, he remembered now.

This particular search was mercifully short, revealing Miles' position in the company and his office in only a few seconds. As it turned out, his hours were the same as Davids...

"Huh," Derek muttered. He closed out, did his best to make everything look the way it did before he started to mess around, and leapt back over the reception desk. The lobby was still empty. Probably a busy day up top. Derek removed a cellphone from his pocket as he trotted over to the nearby elevator terminal, stabbing the down arrow button. He cast a glance back over to the reception desk. Still clear.

"You got it?" Sarah asked over the phone.

"David was right. He'll be here in an hour, at least."

Sarah hissed on the other line. "What else? Particulars, where they're supposed to meet...?"

"The receptionist is supposed to send him up to David's office as soon as he comes in."

"Wonderful. What floor?"

"Top."

"Hold on... wait... okay. I see it... _Damn._ The windows are shuttered."

The elevator opened up with a cheerful _ding! _Derek walked inside and pressed the button labeled "7." He craned his mouth back over the phone. "Yeah. I'll take care of that. How many shots you got?"

"Two uranium. I'll only need one."

"You remember where to shoot?"

"Don't insult me, Reese."

Derek grinned. "Alright then, good luck to you." The elevator started its ascent as Derek flipped the cellphone off. Before he got to David's office, he intended to pay a visit to someone.

--

On the outside the library appeared to be very much like everything else in this part of the city; white-washed and dilapidated, crumbling at the seams wherever it could. John frowned as he and Michael stood side by side, watching it from behind the black van. On the inside...

"There could be a dozen guys in there," John said.

"We've been over this," Mike said, twirling his pistol in his hand. He did it absentmindedly, and the black metal seemed to swirl as John watched it. "But it's not as if they're gonna carry her out to us, John."

"I know." He hefted the MP5 he'd selected for himself; the pistol in his jeans was backup. It was a good, reliable weapon so long as the previous owner had been taking care of it. The sight was good, it was easy to handle... recoil was a bit of a problem, but John intended to use it in close range only anyway. And what were they dealing with? Fuckin' M-16s, trained marksmen that were able to take out a _Terminator_, for chrissake.

"I really don't wanna fucking die," John blurted.

"No kidding." Mike didn't sound patronizing or like he was lecturing this time. He was just agreeing this time. That was cool. "But you need her, don't you? Second thoughts, John?"

"No. No second thoughts. I want to get her back, I _need_ her back. Seriously. I just don't think this is gonna end well."

Mike waved him on and started walking, heading for a neighboring building some fifty meters off to the right. "We should check the place out, circle it, y'know."

"Okay."

They walked, Mike keeping his strides short and controlled, holding the Beretta out, and John keeping the MP5 at hip firing stance. Not a great solution if anybody started to shoot at them, but at least they'd be able to get a few shots back at em' before they croaked...

Holy crap, don't even think that.

"So talk," Mike said.

"About what?"

"You don't wanna go into combat with a bunch of shit on your chest, John," He looked back at him and nodded for emphasis. "Believe me, you don't."

"It's nothing. I'm just a bit freaked out. Everything's moving way too quick."

"Well, tell me about it again, then."

John glared at him, but Mike wasn't even looking. He settled for scuffing his feet on the concrete. "Mike-"

Mike whipped around, staring at him coldly. "I insist, John. Seriously. Talk."

John blinked at him. Okay. Uh...

"Do I torture anyone? I-in the future, y'know."

Mike made a curious sound and turned away, resuming their slow circuit around the building. John kept his eyes glued to the library, searching the windows for sharpshooters. "I don't know. I wasn't that high level. You'd be better off asking someone else, seriously." He seemed a bit weirded out with the question. "Why?"

Well, _thanks. _

"I dunno. Cameron told me that I do. Not, y'know, _me_ obviously, but I let it happen. To get information." He scratched his neck fitfully.

"Wouldn't surprise me, anyway. It's what you gotta do, John. That it?"

"No. Are you mad at me at all?"

Mike froze, turning around again. He raised an eyebrow at John. "Why on earth would I be mad at you?" he said, sounding appropriately incredulous.

John shrugged. "You were all... standoffish at school, y'know, over Cheri, when we met up at the cafeteria, at the police station... And, y'know, there's me running away and all. I'm just curious, man."

"Uh. Well. No. Not anymore. I _was_, I think, though. I had this image of you in my head, John, and you just... well, at the time you weren't _that _to me, and that messed me up." He shook his head. "I... when I was in the army and all, I... never met you all too much, but I liked you, John. A lot. We _all_ did, really. I was born a little after Judgment Day and you were like... Heh."

"What?" John didn't like the way he was suddenly smirking, giggling. All mischievous like. It required no further restating that Mike generally weirded him out as it was.

"Nothing. You lived in my house for a while, when you were, uh, drifting I guess. I don't remember it much, to be honest. I just know you were there."

John frowned. "Uh. Do you mean that in like... uh... y'know, a religious sense, or-"

Mike laughed again. "Nah, as in physically there. You were nice. I remember that much. Not much else. Anyway, the point is... I-I kinda misjudged you, I guess. But no, I'm not mad at you. I don't blame you for running away, either. The question is, are you done?"

"I don't know."

They rounded the building. The next stretch appeared to be much like the one they'd just cleared, except this side had a staircase leading up to the second floor. John nodded towards it, holding the MP5 out to aiming stance now.

"You're never gonna be _not_ John Connor, John. You're always the leader. I don't care if you don't think you're not him _yet, _because it's _you._ You can become a military leader, but you're always one person. You and that guy I was familiar with in the future, you're the same person."

John shook his head softly. "I know that, I'm just wondering if I can change it. If it's possible, y'know."

Mike looked back at him. "You're trying to stop Skynet, right? Before it exists?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's the best way to ensure you'll never have to be that leader, then. Not by running away. If you run away from it, it's still gonna happen."

"I just d-don't know if I'm up to it. I thought I was gonna mess it up, screw everything up, y'know? That's why I left. I figured... well, my mom can do it, Cameron can do it, Derek can do it... they're all soldiers, and I'm just the tech guy. What do they need me for?"

Mike snorted. "You're holding a gun, John."

"Hah, yeah, I know, but... it's hard to explain. Everyone tells me it's gonna be okay, but nothing good ever happens. I either need to stop _feeling _and just fight or curl up and... sit there, feeling sorry for myself. I don't wanna do either of those things."

"You just need to do what you think is right." He looked back to John, then back at the building. "Alright, we'll talk later, okay?"

"Yeah."

Mike outstretched his palm, made it flat, and lowered it twice. _Get down. _They both crouched and continued to head towards the stairs. There was still no sign of... well, anything. The wind blew incessantly around them, creating a constant howling noise that made it difficult to listen in to what was going on inside.

They reached the stairs a few seconds later. John craned his neck up to see if the connecting door was open or not... dark wood against the concrete. Shut. "C'mon," he whispered.

They sprinted up the steps, John taking them twice at a time, holding the submachine gun in one hand. Jeez, it felt like old times, storming the Cyberdyne building and everything. Except now he held a gun instead of a backpack, and he smelled a lot more. Hadn't fricken' showered in at least a day now.

Mike reached the door first and quietly tried the handle. It clicked. Mike grinned and slowly pushed it open as John covered the windows. No movement, but the visibility inside was shitty. Someone could be staring at them right now...

_No fucking choice now. You're here. Do it. _

Amazing. He'd been drunk off his ass yesterday, trying to enjoy himself. Here he was, all... intense and shit, driven. Neither sensations had been great, but this one at least felt more important. Mike slipped in past the door, stepping quietly on the balls of his feet. John followed suit, crouching behind him.

The library was huge. Bigger than any John had ever seen, that was for sure. It was pretty cavernous on the inside, not very warm (sort of dank, actually. The walls were grey, unfinished looking,) and rows upon rows of book shelves occupied its interior. From here it was difficult to tell anything about it other _than_ book shelves only. No masked cultists, that was for sure, and John supposed that that was at least a plus. Most of the shelves were stocked with old looking volumes, and still many had no books altogether. Probably abandoned a while ago. You'd think the city would repurpose this place, but then again, you'd think that for the rest of this area, too.

"See anything?" John whispered.

Mike made a slashing motion. John clammed up and just followed him.

They half-crawled down the nearby aisle, rounding the curved walls as they went. The next area was a rounded study hall type place, with tons of chairs and tables. They all looked moldy and disused, and there was an unlit fire barrel in the middle of it all. Didn't look as if it'd been set aflame in years.

No sound except their feet, going at it softly on the carpeted floor.

Jesus, they'd gone in the wrong fucking direction. No one was here. Oh, christ, all of that worrying about sharpshooters, snipers, lookouts, security checkpoints... all a load of paranoid bullshit. John half wanted to smack himself upside the face.

Of course, that also meant Cameron couldn't possibly be here... It was time to move on again. Try something else. Goddamnit.

"Mike..."

The slashing motion again. John suppressed a growl, grabbing Michael on the shoulder. "Dude. There's no one here-"

Someone coughed. Off in the distance. Just once. A loud, piercing, echoing phlegmatic noise. John's hairs stood on end. His hand remained frozen on Mike's shoulder. Holy shit.

Mike absently snugged his head against John's hand, as though trying to warm it. John pulled it away as the other teenager looked at him.

John shrugged. _Hey, can you blame me? _Jesus, that cough was...

They waited, sitting there, half crouched down. It was seriously uncomfortable, but neither of them wanted to move after that. Utter silence, all dead as a tomb. There was no further sound, no movement for about five minutes. John's legs started to totter slightly underneath him as he became more restless and nervous, shaking like hell.

After a while, John finally grew impatient and tapped Mike once. He gave the guy a severe look, _Let's get on with it, _and started to move past Michael. Behind him, he could hear the other kid moving along with him. Some momentary lapse of his cool? What the hell happened back there? They went to the other side of the study area and started along the eastern wall. Bright, almost intensely bright windows stood at hip level above them. Nothing outside to look at besides clouds and a bleak cityscape.

John kept his eyes anchored forward, constantly twitching back and forth. Nothing, nothing. Just more shelves. Up ahead there was a slight break, which probably led into another study section. Was it occupied? That cough could have come from anywhere in here... the place was so big that it just echoed, goddamnit...

His breaths were starting to come out as warm clouds of steam. He felt cold out of his mind.

Kept going. No sounds. John couldn't even hear his own footsteps anymore. The MP5 remained outstretched, suddenly way too huge in his hands. He felt the urgent need to check it again, see if it was all good, ready to fire. If it wouldn't jam, but he'd prepared. Just before they left, he _loaded it,_ checked the _action, _the _iron sight, _it was all good, yet it felt fucking _wrong. _Like it'd break in half if he raised it to fire, like some vengeful god would suddenly smite the thing in his hands... like... jesus... jesus...

They came to the break. John held up a hand. Mike obediently stopped. John absently turned to the guy, and found him to be staring adamantly at the floor, eyes small. He looked... tense. He kept opening his mouth. He kept fidgeting. Like he wanted to say something.

John turned back and leaned past the bookshelf.

There was a man.

The area was probably a reception hall, or a book check out place, something like that. There were benches around, old desks, some white metallic carts. Chairs. Lots of chairs. The counter itself was big and circular, although it was probably closer to a semi-circle and John just couldn't see the opening. A wooden pillar stood in the middle, and hooked to the pillar were phones, bluish looking card carriers, a check-out reader...

The man was pretty tall, well made, although maybe that was just the kevlar. His face was angular and tough looking, with plenty of freckles, low cheekbones and hollowed eyes. Above those eyes were a pair of circular eye glasses. He had smooth, ruddy red hair. He was wearing a grey bulletproof vest over his chest. Below that on his torso was a black suit with an illegible logo on his right breast. He was holding a weapon, but it was obscured by the desk, and all John could see was the muzzle. Impossible to tell what it really was.

The man appeared to be reading something on the counter. His interest didn't seem particularly rapt, and he seemed just as likely to leave it and continue whatever it was he'd been doing a second ago, rather than continue reading.

John took all of this in and leaned back, his face devoid of expression. He turned slightly to Mike and raised his hand, extending his index finger. _One. _

Mike shuddered visibly and made a rifle gesture with his hands. Cocked his head quizzically. _What load out?_

John shrugged. _No idea. _He blinked rapidly, holding the MP5 tighter to his chest. Okay... he had... maybe four clips in his pockets. One mag for the Beretta, and that was inside the pistol. Mike had about six mags all over his person. Ready? Ready to kill, to... do this? Jesus. He stared at Mike.

Mike made a slash-throat gesture.

John gulped and mouthed _Who?_

Mike pointed at him.

Ohhh Jesus. He shook his head. _No. No. Sorry. _

Mike nodded earnestly. Of course. Had to be him. John was _there_, right? He was right there. Could just aim... pop... and there'd be some blood on the ground. Of course.

John slowly lowered his MP5 onto the ground, settled it against the carpet, and unholstered his pistol. Deep breaths. One, two, three, four. Okay? Ready. You're good. Ready.

He kept shuddering as he breathed, making a low gasping noise each time he sucked in.

"Calm down," Mike whispered.

"Just lemme... hold on..."

He leaned back again. The man was still there. Gun was still invisible. The book had folded up, and he was staring distantly into the window a few feet from John's head. John quickly ducked back. Breathed. He raised the pistol and slowly, _very slowly _thumbed the hammer. A light, almost inaudible click as the safety came off.

One, two, three, four... five... six... seven... Breathe.

He took a practice aim, looking down the iron sight. There was a short little jutting piece at the end of the Beretta. Put that slightly below the guy's head. And then the bullet would fly right where you aligned it. Nothing to it. Simple as fuck.

John gulped. Stop procrastinating.

He turned to Mike. Nodded. Mike nodded back, his eyes... somewhere else entirely.

John turned, and Mike suddenly grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back. John blinked and turned his head slightly, only to have Mike grab his face and pulled him in. It seemed like something... something beyond this world. Mike's lips were suddenly on John's. Weird.

He was fucking _kissing_ him.

John sat there, stiff as a board, not doing anything. They were all pressed and stuff. It was weird. Mike didn't... wrap his arms around him or anything, it was just like _that_, just bent over, a peck, really. Mike made a slight sighing noise and pushed away after a second, blinking rapidly. John absently rubbed his forehead. The guy tasted like sweat.

John turned back, suddenly lost. He raised the pistol again. He didn't hear Mike. He crouched slightly to the side, stretched out his arms so that he could aim right over open sights at the man's face. It was right there.

The man blinked and looked over at John's pistol, his mouth falling open in disbelief.

John tightened his grip on the trigger.

_HE FUCKING KISSED ME. _

Shuddered. Squeezed, the gun bucked in his hand, and the shot went wide.

--

Derek looked up at the office door. Around him, employees in casual dress went to and fro, interspersed with men in black kevlar uniforms, most carrying holstered pistols at their hips. The hall he was standing in was tight and filled with doors, motivational posters, bulletins... all of it seemed incredibly innocent except for the paramilitary types.

All he could think of was _how many of them are in on it? _

**Miles Benitt**

**Head of Theoretical Research**

Below that was a tiny piece of paper that exclaimed "KNOCK FIRST!"

Derek smirked and knocked.

There was a low grumbling sound from within, and Reese could make out a dark figure behind the glass facade of the door. The shape trotted over and pulled the door open, revealing a smartly dressed man in about his early thirties. He had a prominent black goatee, bright blue eyes, and a crew cut on his head. His suit was pristine and he had two pens slung into an oddly placed pocket on his chest. Pretty much the picture of an early success story.

"Help you?" he said, frowning good-naturedly.

"Yeah," Derek said. "I'm from security, I thought we had an appointment, Mr. Benitt?"

Miles tilted his head. "You sure?"

"Yes, sir. If you'll step inside, I'll refresh your memory."

Miles stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes running over Derek's length. He frowned again. "Uh..."

"Sir, I'm on a tight schedule. It's _important._" Derek gave him his most severe glare.

And it worked. Miles coughed slightly and opened the door wider, affording Derek more room to step inside. "Sure thing. Is it about... uh..."

"Just take a seat," Derek growled.

Miles turned and went to take a seat as Derek shut the door and began to shadow Miles as he walked, reaching his hands into his coat pocket. Earlier last night, Derek visited the local music store. Nice place, friendly employees. He bought a mini guitar. The bemused clerk told him he wasn't gonna get much jamming done on such a tiny thing, and Derek cooly informed him that jamming wasn't what he had in mind.

An hour later, on top of the Infinitum Corp building, Derek removed the guitar string from the instrument and fashioned a garrote out of it.

He grabbed the thing out of his coat pocket, stretched it out and grabbed one end with his free hand, and slung it around Miles' neck.

"What-"

Derek pulled while using one of his legs to keep Miles steady. He started to gurgle and thrash around wildly. Derek kicked him to the ground and rapidly leapt down on top of him. He pulled the guitar wire back with all of his might, stretching the wire as far as he could. Miles' writhing became more frenzied as he started to kick and slam the floor with his fists and knees. Derek stayed exactly where he was, pulling, pulling. He felt the skin begin to give way under the wire as he pulled it further. And further. And further. For about a minute.

Miles skin turned a rather interesting shade of blue for a few seconds, and then he collapsed to the floor, feet and arms slumping.

Derek calmly checked his pulse, found none, and hid the body in the nearby personal bathroom. As he stepped out he felt the odd desire to wash his hands, thought better of it, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

--

"HELP! GET IN HERE NOW, I NEED HELP!"

John dove back into cover behind the bookshelf. About a second later, bits of cement exploded as bullets flew into the wall, alongside glass as the window shattered and chunks of wood as the bookshelf buckled under fire.

John sat there, staring wide eyed at the pistol. How'd he miss? How-

He turned to Mike. "Why-"

Mike shook his head rapidly. "I dunno. I... I don't know."

Silence. John could hear the man crouching down, the kevlar making noisy scratching sounds as it settled. He just stared at Michael, mouth fallen open. Why... why why why did that happen? The guy fucking kissed him. That wasn't supposed to happen. That was like... fire turning to ice, or some shit. Not supposed to happen. He didn't want it. Why...?

"Mike..."

"WHO'S OVER THERE?! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP! TOSS YOUR WEAPONS! HELLO?! I NEED HELP, GET IN HERE NOW!"

"John, just..." He held up his hand, as though to call a parley or something. "We're in danger, alright? Just..."

The man took another few shots, and bullets made loud cracking sounds as they pierced the bookshelves and flew over their heads.

"Yeah, yeah. Alright." John gulped and nodded. Danger. Sure. He could focus on that. Oh, Jesus.

"HELLO?! RAY, HICKS, C'MON OUT, GUYS! HELP ME!"

John holstered the pistol and grabbed the MP5, yanking the safety pin down. Mike waved him on and whispered to him, "Okay, I need you to flank him. I'll cover you from here, alright? Let's walk down a bit."

"SOMEBODY!"

A distant voice yelled, "_Coming! What the fuck is going on?!"_

No more gunfire. John and Mike sprang up and sprinted halfway down the length of the wall before turning into an aisle. Mike halted their movement with a quick gesture and stared off into the field of shelves for a few seconds. "Okay. I can almost make it out. Take a fucking deep breath, get ready to run. Keep your breath steady, okay? When you're close just shoot him and run back, alright? I'll try to cover you."

John stood there, staring off into space.

"John?"

"_DON'T FUCKING DO THAT TO ME AGAIN!"_

Mike raised his hands, shuddering a bit, placating. "John, it's okay. Calm yourself."

"I-I-I-I'm calm! Just don't... don't don't... fucking..."

"It was a freakin' spur of the moment thing, sue me!"

"I'll do more than that you nancy fuck!"

"WHO'S OVER THERE?!" Another voice yelled.

"I just saw a gun and... they fucking tried to blow my head off! Where's Hicks?"

"I dunno!"

John couldn't stop shaking. Mike gripped his arms and tried to keep them steady, but John shook out of his grasp. He couldn't think. He felt vaguely sick. "Gimme a second."

"We don't have a second!"

"I need a second."

Mike rubbed his forehead. "Look, I'm sorry, alright?"

"I know. It was a spur of the moment thing. You didn't mean it. I know."

Distantly he could hear hushed voices.

"What're you afraid of, John?"

"I don't like you the same way you... obviously like me, okay? I just don't. It's..." He tapped his foot rapidly, and then it wouldn't stop. Kept tapping. "Jesus Christ, Mike, I wish you'd take a hint."

"John, we can discuss it later, alright? Can you do what I asked?"

"What'd you ask?"

"Flank them, I'll cover you. Wait until you hear one of them approaching. I'll deal with him and you take out the other one, okay?"

"Right." John gulped. Okay. Right. Clear your mind. Put that out of your mind. It's okay. He breathed, hefting the MP5 in his hands.

"You'll do fine," Mike said.

John simply nodded. And they waited.

The voices continued on in earnest. John couldn't tell who was saying what, but it sounded vaguely panicked. The only word that was hearable was "Hicks!" when it was yelled. No one ever answered. After about two or so minutes, the voices stopped. Mike, keeping his grip on his pistol steady, slowly leaned back to check the other aisle. He leaned back immediately, his breath going short.

"One of them's coming. Didn't see me. Go, John."

John shut his eyes tightly, did a quick _one two three _ breath and dashed across the aisle. No bullets tracked him. He quickly checked the aisle. No one. Empty. No one was there.

He brought the MP5 up to eye level so he could stare down the sight and started to move quickly down the rows of books, back towards the book check out area. He kept swinging back and forth, checking the aisles as he passed them. He thought he caught shapes off in the distance, but he... couldn't make anything out for sure. They disappeared as soon as he thought he saw them. Empty, empty as he went along. And no sound except his feet. God...

Why did Mike kiss him? What was the point? John had already fucking broadcasted in big bold letters **NO, **and yet he kept trying shit with him. Why? What was the point? Jesus Christ, he was gonna go nuts.

Heh. How many times had he thought that this week? That he'd go nuts? A lot of fuckin' times. Well. He hadn't gone nuts yet. Who said this would be any different from those times? Weird things happened in his life, goddamnit. There was no avoiding it. It was just there, and he had to deal with it. There.

He was damned if he wouldn't get an explanation out of Mike, though. That was like... it was like... required now, or something. _Had_ to get an explanation. All there was to it. When he put it out there in front of him, made a goal out of it, took the neurotic angst out of it, it suddenly got easier, sure. But honestly...

No. Stop. Focus. He could deal with this. Deal with _all _of this.

John kept his pace short and controlled, sweeping the two adjacent aisles to him every time he cleared the preceding ones. He did this twice. On the third, he went to the left. Nothing. To the right. Something. Big black blob of _person,_ with _gun. _

John sprinted forward, barely dodging a barrage of gunfire as it arched down the row of shelves, yellow tracer fire gleaming like hellfire. John tripped over his own feet suddenly in a bout of panicked clumsiness and collapsed to the floor.

"MIIIKE!"

Short, loud barks from Michael's Beretta. John hurriedly pushed himself back up, using the muzzle of the submachine gun to balance himself. The shooter kept shooting, but it was impossible to tell from where and at whom. In a second a bullet could fucking pierce his back and John wouldn't even realize it until he was _dead. _

He started to run now, not even keeping his eye on his flanks. Do as Mike said. Shoot the guy in the check out place. Who was that guy in the aisle? All he saw was a uniform... Jesus...

The opening into the book check out place was right ahead. John came at it at a full tilt, the MP5 stiff at his hip. Mike's pistol kept firing, to staccato answering by the shooter's rifle. Sounded like an M-16. John wasn't even thinking. Mike could die and he wouldn't realize it even if he stood over the guy's corpse. He had too much adrenaline pumping him up right now, too much battle high.

He came barreling through into the check out place, holding the MP5's butt against his chest. Turned, turned, _right! Something-_

"FUUUCK!" someone yelled, right next to John.

There was a guy _right there, like, two feet away! _Rifle in his hand. Jesus fucking Christ. John swung the MP5 over to him and opened up, squeezing the trigger in earnest. The vicious little weapon barked, the individual gunshots sounding like a continuous rattling, like rain over a corrugated steel roof, or something. There was a flash, lighting up everything around him. What was dim became bright. Simple.

The gun clicked after a few seconds. Holy crap, he didn't even aim.

He looked. Like, really looked.

The wall directly ahead of him was marked with about a dozen bullet holes. The window, already shattered, had probably swallowed up a bunch itself. Ground seemed...

The man was still standing. Hobbling, really. He had this grimace on his face, and John counted about four flattened bullets, stitching a line diagonally along the kevlar vest. A fifth bullet had penetrated the man's shoulder, leaving a large, angry red hole. The rifle had clattered to the floor about a few seconds earlier.

John stood there, staring as the man struggled to breathe. Wheeze and wheeze. He coughed rapidly, one two three four coughs, and his hands groped for... something on his vest. It was the same guy from before. John could tell from the glasses.

He sagged and crumpled to the floor, still wheezing. John stared down at him, absently scratching his back in perplexion. He'd been using friggin' FMJ ammo, why didn't...

He suddenly realized that he couldn't hear anything besides the man's labored breathing.

"MIKE!"

No answer. He couldn't hear shit. No...

"Oh god..."

He dropped the MP5 and sprinted off in the direction he'd arrived in. Aisles flew past, and he kept thinking _which one, which one?! _

Which one had they... had they argued in, had John had to calm himself down in, which aisle?!

He pushed his head forward, bowing it down, as though trying to hear something before the noise reached the rest of his body, like he was trying to _outrun_ it, almost. "MIKE!"

No response. Jesus... if he was fucking dead...

John went past an aisle and nearly slipped and fell as he caught movement to the side. He wheeled around, breathless, watched as Michael grappled with the cultist who'd tried to mark John just a few seconds ago.

"Mike!"

No answer. That was to be expected, though, because Michael was getting throttled. The cultist had his hands wrapped around his neck pretty good. John unholstered his pistol and aimed, but christ, they kept moving around, he was afraid...

"HEY, ASSHOLE!" John yelled.

Mike managed to produce a frankly terrifying growling sound and kneed the cultist in the shin as the man's attention was suddenly diverted by John's appearance. The cultist yelled in pain and toppled to the floor, holding himself. A bunch of books got knocked over as his hand trailed across the nearby shelf. Mike took in a deep sucking breath and scrambled onto the floor, grabbing his pistol. He wheeled around, pressed the gun against the man's head and fired three times.

He turned to John, rubbing his neck softly. "S-sorry."

The spent shells clattered to the floor, one by one.

Oh. Just like that, right? Kill and then... it's just nothing. John blinked and wiped sweat from his forehead, averting his eyes from the cultist's shattered head. "Uh. It's okay. You alright?"

"Yeah. He dead?"

"Yeah, yeah, he's dead."

Mike frowned. "Uh. I meant your guy."

"Oh! Knocked out, he... it's fine. We s-should find Cameron."

"Yeah..." Mike holstered his pistol and walked over, smiling gently. Placating, really. He looked as if he'd been caught doing something wrong.

In a way that was true.

"Lemme get..." John just stood there, shaking all over. That was all so fast... If he had a cigarette he'd probably be smoking it right now.

"It's okay, John." Mike reached his hands out.

"Yeah." John shied away, almost instinctively. "And no. I'm sorry, just no, alright?"

Mike shrank back. "Yeah. Okay."

--

"They're here to rescue me."

Hicks ignored her and went for the box cutters on the floor. They were right next to her head.

"Stay still," he muttered. He bent back to the cellphone on the crook of his neck. "Yeah, go on."

Cameron Forsythe spoke rapidly; _"It's about ten or so centimeters above the _left_ eye, Hicks! Cut a circle about twelve centimeters in diameter!"_

"You should surrender," the Terminator said.

She swung her head upward as Hicks' hand came down to stabilize her. He deftly avoided the blow and pressed her skull down. She kept jerking it up and down, but he'd gotten a fairly good purchase. Box cutters flashed in his other hand and bored down on her scalp. Gunfire outside.

"Right... 'bove the eye... a few centimeters..." He kept sweating.

"You're doing it wrong."

_"Don't listen to that bitch!"_

"Fuck you, machine."

Any second now and they could fucking bust in and shoot him until he was dead. Had to hurry, hurry...

"Stop it."

She kept jerking her head.

"_Stop._ I'm just shutting you down for now, I'm not-"

_"Keep reassuring her, Hicks! Hicks, I'm coming back, trust me, it's OKAY!"_

"I KNOW, Cameron!"

"You're going to die. They'll kill you."

Hicks shuddered. "Stop it."

He folded back the flap of skin. Just as Cameron had told him, the port was right there. Hicks reached into his pocket and retrieved a screwdriver. He slung it onto the side of the port and tried to chip it off. Should be a hiss... of air, or something...

"You're going to die."

"_Shut up!"_

"Shut up!"

_"Is it exposed?"_

The port cover flipped off, revealing the Terminator's glowy blue CPU.

Yeah.

_"Hicks, I'm almost there, just take it out and HIDE the chip. Alright? Oh, god, who's there?!"_

"It's... it's probably Connor and his men!"

_"Hicks, just hide, okay! Don't die! PLEASE don't die!"_

"He's going to die."

Hicks glared at her, reaching in and grasping the chip. Goddamnit.

"Stop," the Terminator said.

Hicks turned the CPU slightly and pulled it out.

Her lifeless expression became, if it was possible, even more lifeless.

_"Hicks?"_

"It's done."

_"Okay, great, hide it!"_

Okay. Hurry up. Hicks blinked and walked over to the other side of the room, planting the CPU on the table. He gathered his rifle from the floor and crouched behind the door.

_"Hicks?"_

"I hid it, god, Cameron. Okay, I think they're close. I'm gonna sign off for now, okay? I'll talk to you in a bit. In person. Okay?"

_"Hicks, listen to me, this is all going wrong, I'm sorry!"_

"I know."

_"PLEASE, try your best to get rid of Connor. It all depends on him, their... just don't die!"_

"I won't."

_"I..."_

"I know." He thumbed the red "off" button, sighing heavily. It was odd. He found himself wondering again... wondering what would have happened if they _both_ just decided to jump ship, if Cameron hadn't been just as psycho as the rest of these dopes, if...

If anything could have happened, really. Anything more than _this. _

Waited. He let himself breathe in only short bursts. Just enough to keep him covered, not make any noise. He kept his gun trained on the door.

His eyes wandered slightly. What was he doing here? Why didn't he run when he had the chance?

Because of her. Against all odds he felt _something, _some hitch, some odd _quality_ about her that made him think that she wasn't as completely psycho as the rest of the cult. Was he just pissing in the wind? Was it all for naught?

_There is a device on my back,_ said some words that had been etched into the wood. _Please remove it. _

"Motherfucker..." Hicks said. How do you fucking win against that? When they're always two steps ahead of you? He looked back to the door. Nothing else _but_ the door. Be ready, be ready at all times.

_Be ready. Be ready at all times, Roland. Soon as those Hajji's come through you _ventilate _them. _

_Yeah, yeah, sure. I got it. _

_You're not gonna pussy out again._

_No, Sarah. Jesus. _

She'd smiled. Now he was learning, eh? Heh.

You train... for all your life to do one perfect thing. Killing. In some respects you're really no better than those robots, are you, Hicks? At least you get paid to do it. What do they do it for? They have minds. They have thoughts. So what do they do it for if not for pleasure?

_They also_ take pleasure in it. You are an accessory to their perfect fetish, their pleasure, these men and women who want to destroy everything. Like robots themselves, only scarier.

You're no better, aren't you. Just a leaf in the wind, twisting with whatever breeze catches you. You go with the flow.

You're in danger. You have no choice, Hicks. You have to shoot. The others are dead now.

He could hear footsteps.

You've _got_ to shoot.

But you only do it in self defense, Hicks. Defend the room. That's... that's a good objective, right? You're only defending. They'll kill you if they find you. Shot at Ray and the other guy, didn't they? They're the aggressors. It's different this time.

God, but he wanted to live so badly. Maybe he could... get the jump on them, right?

The door creaked. Hicks went completely still.

You never killed John Connor. Maybe you'll kill him this time, but at least that's when you're... when you're fighting. When _he's_ fighting and not all helpless like. It's self defense. You're not a murderer, Hicks. That's not you. You're a soldier. You do what soldiers do. You die for a cause bigger and possibly stupider than yourself, and _that's_ what soldiers do.

That would have to do. It wasn't as if he had anything else anymore. Just a soldier.

A whisper: "She's here. Lemme check first."

"Mike, don't be a fucking hero."

A short silence.

"Don't give me that, John."

"Bull, I'll go first."

Another silence.

"Mike..."

"_John._"

"Okay, okay... Goddamnit, Mike."

A teenager --presumably Mike-- in white hospital garb slowly advanced into the room, head sweeping around. Before Hicks could react, the kid's head whipsawed over to him and their eyes met. He had brownish hair, grey eyes, an ear ring hanging down. A hawkish sort of face. Hicks' rifle was aimed about at the kid's midsection.

_Two bullets. Two roars. One guy; down. One woman; down. And a kid in a police uniform, standing in the door, two shots, two kills. One of them his wife. _

It was the same fucking guy. It was the kid who shot his wife.

"Holy hell," Hicks whispered.

"John-"

Time seemed to slow down to a crawl. Not even a crawl, really. Inches and inches, hour by hour. You can have your revenge, Hicks. That's what you wanted, right? It was all about that, all the time, every_where?_ Motivating every step.

No. No, that's wrong. You know better now. That was then, and this is now.

And admit it. You don't even fucking love her anymore, do you? So make a choice, Roland. Make a choice. What happens when you shoot? Eh? Huh? You get a tiny spike in your brain, some weird feeling of elation at having reached an objective, had it fall into your hands... and you fulfilled it. For the good of... what, these men? This cult? These machines? You do it more for them than for you, Hicks, and you know it.

Or you can _realize_ just how much this is all over your head, that you don't even matter. That if you shoot, it only benefits... god, it only benefits the bad guys.

That wasn't good thinking for a hired mercenary by trade. It wasn't practical thinking. But he'd seen things over the last few days that convinced him that there were some causes that were too fucking insane to be worth dying over.

Or killing over. No matter what.

"Wait!"

The kid raised his pistol with one hand, and Hicks found himself staring down the sight of the gun. Hicks dropped his assault rifle, letting it clatter to the floor. The teenager slowly, methodically tilted his head to the side, like a bird contemplating a worm. "Why wait?"

"I don't want any trouble."

Another head slowly poked out from behind the door. Long hair. Green eyes. Connor. Hicks stared at him for a little bit, which seemed to get a rise out of his friend.

"Eyes on me," the kid said. His grip on the pistol stiffened.

Hicks blinked and turned back to his wife's killer. "Just let me leave, alright kid?"

"Why the fuck should we let any of you assholes go?"

"Mike..." John said.

"Hey, John. Stop."

John glared.

Hicks kept his hands raised. "I wish I could explain to you guys, but I really can't. I'm not gonna try and backstab you guys. I'm just going to leave. I'm done with these idiots. Okay?"

"Not as simple as that," Mike growled.

"Jesus Christ, Mike, stand back a bit, alright?" John took a step forward and touched Mike's gun arm. Mike shuddered and looked at his comrade. John smiled at him. "Lemme handle it, okay?"

"John-"

"Hey. My orders, right?"

Mike blinked at him and sagged, lowering the pistol. He kept his grey eyes fixed on John's for a few seconds, like he was trying to break him over to his line of thinking with just a stare alone. After a few seconds he shook his head slowly and turned.

John smiled at Hicks and walked over to him.

"Oh, hey." Recognition suddenly dawned.

"Sorry about before, kid," Hicks said slowly.

John rubbed his neck. "Why surrender?"

Hicks shrugged. "It's too much to explain. Can you just accept that I'm not gonna try and kill you? That I'll just, y'know, leave?"

"Why not join us?"

Hicks clucked. "No. I'm sorry, but... no. I'm done with this. This apocalypse, all of that." He leaned forward. "I'm the only one left, okay? Once I'm gone the building's clear." He nodded toward the machine. "Her computer chip's on the table over there. I just want to leave."

John stared at him. "Why do this?"

"I made a lot of fucking mistakes, John. A _lot._ And I'm sick of it, alright? I was wrong, these guys were wrong. You don't have to believe me. The only important thing should be that I'm offering to leave you alone. You can escort me out if you want."

John folded his arms, nodding towards Michael. The teenager went over to the table and took the CPU in his hands. Hicks looked at the Terminator and smirked. So many unanswered questions about that stupid thing... he supposed he'd never know now, though, eh?

"Yeah," John said. "Okay. There anything else?"

He wasn't gonna tell them about Cameron. Chances were he'd be able to deal with that himself. "No."

John turned to his friend. "You know how to reactivate her?"

"Yeah."

"Do it. Tell her I said hey."

Mike nodded. He didn't look at Hicks. Acted like he no longer existed. Hicks stared at him for a few seconds as Connor led the way out of the room, staring at the guy who shot his wife, the woman he'd loved.

What a shame that there were more important things in life than revenge. And what a fucking bigger shame that he hadn't realized that until now.

"He's a killer," Hicks muttered as they went past a few aisles of bookshelves. He had his back turned to John as the teenager pushed him along.

"So are you," he said.

"But _you_ aren't," Hicks said. He turned his head slightly back so he could watch the kid. "Right?" John looked away. Hicks turned again. "That puts you in some shitty company, don't it?"

"Shut up."

Hicks went quiet.

"I don't _fucking_ judge like a prick, okay? I don't, I try a-a-and see the best in people. I'm letting you go, aren't I?"

"You certainly are."

"So don't _fucking_ tell me about where I am, who I'm with, any of that bullshit, okay?"

Hicks rotated his neck once, feeling an odd stiffening of his hairs. "Alright."

"I mean... _I know._ He's fucking screwed up. I... know. That doesn't mean you gotta... disparage him and that shit, alright? You have no right."

Hicks stopped and turned to John Connor. "He killed my wife."

John's eyes widened very slightly.

"She was with us at the police station. He killed her. He's a killer. Unlike you." Hicks cleared his throat and pointed at John. "Personally, I wouldn't recommend doing it any time soon, alright? It kind of screws you up." He turned. "I know the way out from here."

John was silent as he shadowed him the rest of the way to the door. When they stepped outside, Hicks could feel a cool breeze coming from all directions. It was better than anything else he'd felt all day.

"If you decide to run again, kid, I wouldn't hold it against you myself."

John smiled softly. "I don't think I will. I think I'm staying."

Hicks grunted. "Your side isn't all apples and carrots." He chuckled. "That's a bad expression, but you get it. Anyway, keep it in mind. Everyone deserves a fair shake, though, so keep that in mind too."

"What'll you do?"

"I really don't know. I'm used to shooting things, but I'm done with that, so I guess I gotta learn myself a new skill. Maybe I'll go into religion. Hah!" He turned to John. "Like I said, sorry I hurt you."

John Connor was staring off into space. He just sort of shrugged and shook his head. "S'ok."

Jesus Christ, but he didn't envy the boy.

"All the best."

"Right."

Hicks took one last look at the kid and started to make his way down the steps, and into the brave new world he'd thrown himself into.

And he couldn't have been happier for it. For what felt like the first time in his whole life, he felt like he'd finally done something right.

--

**SARKISSIAN PHONE #**

John slowly plucked the slip of paper up from the table and pocketed it. Then he continued on, his hands in his pockets.

Well, yeah. It was decided. He hadn't been bullshitting that soldier. He was gonna stick it out. Stay. No away.

What would that do, though? For him? For his family? For Cameron? For Mike? He had no idea. It was all gonna happen as it was supposed to, but the important thing was that they were all in this together. No matter if Cameron was a robot, if John was a neurotic worrier, if Mike was gay and loved him. They all had their damned problems. There was a fundamental good in all of them, and _that_ was all that mattered.

When he walked into the interrogation room for the second time, he found Michael sitting on the table, smiling brightly as he saw John enter. It wasn't so bad. It wasn't bad to be loved.

And he saw Cameron, just standing there, her head at her usual, almost infantile angle. And like Mike, she smiled at him, and John grinned back at her as he spread his arms and embraced her. It wasn't so bad. It wasn't bad to be loved.

"We came for you, Cam. For _you._"

"I know," Cameron said softly, against his ear. She felt wonderful right there in his arms, as she usually did in her other-worldly way. "Thank you for returning the favor."

It really was like that, wasn't it? Just returning the favor. She did everything for him, searched for him, found him when he didn't want to be found. He was just returning the favor, helping her. It felt good. He stroked her hair softly and nodded against her shoulder. "Jesus, it's fucking great to see you."

For perhaps the very first time since they'd just met, when she was just a girl and he was just a boy, and there was not a Skynet... for the first time since then he felt like kissing her. She was okay. There was no alienation between them. Just relief at having found each other once again.

After a few seconds, they parted, and Cameron sent a look over at Michael as John himself turned to face him. After a few seconds of holding that secret gaze, she turned and walked over to retrieve the soldier's discarded assault rifle.

"John..."

John smirked. "You're alright, Michael. Serious."

"Are you okay?" He seemed wrought with nervousness.

"Yeah. I'm fine. I'm good."

"I'm sorry."

John shrugged. "You don't have to be. I don't blame you. I _can't_ blame you for... y'know."

Mike shook his head. "It was stupid. I should have known that... you and me... y'know. That's not gonna happen. Should have realized that before, but... God. I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I put you through that."

God, what could you say? For the first time... _ever_, John realized he was looking at more than just another kid like him. Mike was a soldier. He'd suffered through God knew what for all of his life. And when he loved, he was rejected.

"_I'm_ sorry," John said.

Mike waved his hand slightly. "Don't worry about it. I'll be fine. Just need to think about what I'm doing, where I'm going."

"Where _we're_ going."

Mike smiled. "It could be. We'll see."

He plopped himself off the table and hugged John. John gripped him back just as hard. He was wrong before. For all Mike's oddities, his ruthlessness, there was just a teenager underneath the hardened skin. Prod deeply enough and you'd see it. Dazed and confused... and ultimately human, like John himself.

_Christ. Loved by a robot and another dude. No wonder you can't get laid. _

That struck him as hilarious, so he started laughing like hell. Mike let go of him and he chuckled slightly himself. He looked comfortable. Yeah. He felt good here, when it was like this. He'd forgotten what it was like.

He looked at Cameron as she walked back over. Still smiling brightly at him. And he didn't even think _ruse, or genuine?_ He had to suppress an odd, manic laugh of glee. All together. They were all right here. Everyone was here again. John was fine, Cameron was fine, and Mike was fine. And they were done here. They'd go home. There. It was decided now. No more running. He'd stick it out.

He'd fight. Some things were just worth that, just worth fighting for. He'd had his moment, his great immaturity, his chance to run away, and he didn't go over to the bad side, he did not join the victorious opposition in the end, and he was better because of it. He was here now. There was no away.

He'd stay.


	15. The Wife

**Away**

Chapter Fifteen: The Wife

Author's Note: The ending you see in 14 is the one I'm using. So yeah.

_Five minutes ago._

The picture flooded into Cameron's vision: a boring, dank ceiling. A strobe of light... bulb.

**PORT OPEN**

**SYSTEMS OPERATIONAL; ILLEGAL SHUTDOWN DETECTED. CHECK FOR PROBLEMS.**

None that she could ascertain. Watching the world flash out of existence had been very much like having a tub full of water, and then just... pulling the plug. It all becomes smaller, accreted, and then it disappears. When her chip was returned to its rightful place, the visual was very much the same, except it was happening in reverse. It all gets bigger, expands, and filled her world with tactical readouts and true-color displays.

She absently checked her internal clock; two minutes had passed since the soldier removed her CPU.

**MOVEMENT ENABLED. CDS APOLOGIZES FOR THE INCONVENIENCE, UNIT. **

Cameron moved her neck upwards to check the environment. Room was very much the same as it had been. There was a human inside with her; male, adolescent. With those base facts out of the way her systems fully rendered the person and mapped his facial geography: it was Michael Oxferod, Corporal Tech-Com. Cameron swiftly extrapolated that, given the gunshots she'd heard earlier and Hicks' and Cameron Forsythe's phone conversation, Michael was here with John. Presumably to rescue her.

It was a foolhardy thing to do, wrought with unacceptable levels of danger. They could not have had sufficient intelligence going into this. As Sarah would have put it, it was reckless and stupid... Taking a chance and hoping for the best.

And it worked. They came for her. Exclusively.

That felt nice.

Mike cleared his throat, perhaps about to ask if she was all right.

"Hi," Cameron said breezily. "Where's John?"

Mike thumbed towards the door. "Uh, hey yourself. He's outside, dealing with someone."

"He's not hurt?"

Mike shook his head empathetically. "No, no. Not hurt. He's definitely okay."

That was it, then. Cameron wished she could --actually, truly-- sigh in relief. All over; the danger was eliminated, John was healthy (and willing to come back), and she could continue her assignment. Nothing left to do but go home... continue as normal.

And hope that it would be _quite_ some time before another crisis reared its ugly head.

Cameron flexed her fingers slightly...

_Wait. _

She quickly extended her arm, folded it up to her face, and pushed down the flap of broken skin that covered her chip port -- Forsythe's device was gone.

Mike chuckled. "Hey, you look surprised."

Cameron pushed herself up onto her feet and took a few tentative steps; now that she was getting signals from the rest of her body, she could tell that her leg motivators were slightly damaged. A bit of maintenance at home would fix that right up.

"Thank you for taking that off," she said. She absently wrapped a hand around to her back and felt a slight, almost unnoticeable hole on the small of her back. A quick scan of the floor confirmed Forsythe's device to be in tiny pieces nearby; Michael probably crushed it. His enthusiasm was commendable, but Cameron wouldn't have minded studying the thing. Would have probably been a useful thing to have if they ever had the occasion to capture one of her opposite numbers.

She looked over at Mike. "How'd you find him?"

"Same way you did; at that club, I guess."

"How'd you know where to find me?"

Mike smiled. "His stubbornness, mostly. He really wanted to get back to you."

Cameron nodded slowly at this and pointed to the door. "What's he dealing with?"

Mike folded his arms. "Uh. One of those soldiers. He, uh, surrendered. John's leading him out." He turned and walked over to the nearby table, hopping up on top of it and staring off across the room, fixing his attention on nothing in particular.

Cameron tended to associate this with pensiveness. "You have a problem with this."

He shrugged. "No." And coughed. "Well. Maybe. I dunno. I wanted to shoot him." He looked up at Cameron. "What's it matter to you, anyway, huh?"

"I was curious."

"Yeah..." Mike said. "You're like that, huh? Different. Curious, huh."

"I am an advanced model."

Mike looked off to the door, as though impatient. Cameron followed his gaze, having nothing else better to do. She decided to wait on John's return, rather than going out to seek him herself. Best to get as much out of Mike as possible, assess him. As it stood she had very little in his file; Tech-Com combatant, overreactive tendencies, homosexual, probable moral lapses. It'd be nice to find out more... and she could do for a little conversation, anyway.

"You look stressed," Cameron said.

The resistance fighter glared at her. "Thank you so very fucking much for noticing."

_Very stressed, _she mentally amended.

"Why?"

"I'm not talking to a _machine_ about it, no matter what John sees in you."

Ah, ah. Good segue. Cameron slumped her shoulders slightly, smirked. "What do _you_ see in John?"

"No."

"No what?"

"I'm _especially_ not talking about _that_ with you, okay? Stop."

He lowered his head slightly and stared at the ground, slouching, the Beretta in his hand dangling loosely as it was. Cameron watched for a few seconds and walked over, pushing a few (rather painful looking) tools out of her way. She plopped herself up and turned to Michael, still smiling. "You can tell me. I don't judge."

Mike scooted away from her. "Bullshit."

Cameron stared baldly at him. For a hundred and two she had benefitted from there being a lack of... contemporaries around to offer critique on her actions. Sarah and John were oftentimes forced to take her word at face value, but when Derek arrived... all of that changed. Mike was no better.

"I mean that I don't discriminate," she clarified. "I understand and accept the different nuances of human sexuality, so if you are concerned about _that-_"

"The _fuck_ do _YOU_ matter, Cameron? You're a machine, this has nothing to do with you."

"Everyone who involves themselves with John Connor is my concern, Mike, including you."

Mike hissed and tapped his forehead twice in frustration. "Ah. Regular T act. Find out, plan, execute." He smiled sweetly at her. "Y'know, in a way, you're not really that different after all, are you?"

"We're just talking. You are on the resistance's side." She paused a beat. "Right?"

"Fuckin' a, I am. Goddamnit. What do I see in him? I kissed him."

She blinked. "Oh."

That was certainly an answer, albeit not the one she'd been expecting.

"Yeah. And I'm a fucking idiot, I mean..." He chuckled ruefully. "It, uh... didn't go over well for him. It was _on the fly... _I... I mean, he's more interested in you than me. Heh."

_That _was obvious, but Cameron decided that mentioning it aloud would be less than tactful.

"Yeah... I-I... _fuck._.." His eyes started to shine slightly with moisture. Cameron absently tapped the surface of the table. "Yelled at me, and I deserved every word. It hurts, Cameron, it fucking hurts, alright? I want him so friggen' badly, he's like... like the... _second_ person I've felt this way about, but yeah, he's not buying it. He's not like that." He shrugged. "I ta-tried, y'know? But i-it's fine, it doesn't matter to you."

"No," Cameron said. "No, it does. Go on." The shift from being suspicious to _open_ was... interesting. Perhaps he wanted to get something "off his chest."

Mike shook his head rapidly. "I'm _screwed up, _same as you, except I'm all flesh, Cameron. A nuh-normal person doesn't fucking have these problems. I've seen normal people. Two years. Normal people, even... even people who... y'know, like guys, they're normal too." He looked at her. "I've killed _two_ people today, Cameron. And I can't stop thinking about the fah-fact that... if I were born to different parents, born earlier, I would've been normal." He punched the table, and the tools jumped up. "_I don't feel anything when I do it! _It's la-like taking out the fucking trash, killing bugs, killing _you! _I don't feel anything when I kill people."

"I can't tell him I love him," Mike said. "Isn't that great? Wonderful? I do all this crazy shit to him, cuz I don't know better... ah-and hope for the best, hope that... _oh, _I don't know. He fucking loves you, you know that? He _loves you._

Cameron nodded slowly. "I know."

"We're all screwed up. He ain't normal, I'm not normal, _you_ aren't, and I ca-can't even take comfort in that. Yeah. He's straight, I get it. But I can't feel pissed? You can't fucking blame me."

"I don't blame you for anything," Cameron said softly. She felt about the-

No. She wasn't going to think about that. Still an error. A glitch. A lack of reconcilement.

"I-I-I know, I'm just saying." He cleared his throat. "Uh. I mean... I don't blame him either. I'm still gonna help, y'know? I tried to live in an act for two years, I tried to blend in... and y'know, I'm gonna die young. I can feel it. And it won't be pretty, or peaceful either. If I live like this, I'm... well, whatever. I hope it's for a good cause. I just wish... I wish it were different... you know... in the meantime. God, I need to do some thinking."

"Away from us?" Cameron asked.

"For a little bit, maybe. I need to think about this, look at my... priorities, think about it real hard. I've been running on automatic for so long... "

Cameron put an arm around his shoulder. She didn't bring him closer, nor get close herself. It was just that. "You're not the only one."

Mike laughed. "Heh, thanks. I guess it's enough for me, right now. I can still dream about... y'know, and that's enough for me." He sighed. "God, he's like... beautiful. I don't even understand half of why I... even feel like that about him. So random, right? He's worrying about fucking women and I just come outta the blue like an asshole. Heh. I feel like I've known him forever, though. You do too, don't you?"

Cameron was silent. He wasn't the General yet, not in her mind.

Mike must have figured this out. "Really? God. I dunno, in my mind there'll only be one of him, and he's the leader of the human race. Not now, but... I guess I want to be... part of that. I can't take my eyes off him. Even if he doesn't... like me like that, _I _still can. I guess. That'll have to do."

Cameron pushed herself off the table, hearing telltale footsteps approaching. "We're leaving soon."

"Right."

"I'm sorry."

He looked at her, smiling slightly. Very slightly. "Thank you."

She walked into the center of the room and stood there, watching the door.

It was a nice feeling, Cameron thought. Feeling so invested in something... that...

Mike put it the best way. Love.

Her HUD flashed **ERROR**, but the warning went unheeded.

Coincidentally, this particular error wasn't the only one. Well... more of a quirk, actually. Given the damage she'd sustained over the past few hours, it wasn't quite surprising; there was a slight hiccup along the middle of her spine. It seemed fine, though.

The door opened, and Cameron smiled brightly. All fine.

--

Cameron Forsythe pushed the car door open, staring up at the library as rain poured down around her.

There was no smoke, signs of battle... or much of anything. It looked exactly the way it did when she left it. Like nothing had happened.

That meant all jack shit, of course.

She dipped her hand down into her pocket and checked the cellphone again, paging Hicks.

Nothing. Still nothing.

She looked back up and held the library in her eyes for a minute, as though imploring that it reveal something to her.

Not a single thing happened.

"Goddamnit."

Everything was going wrong. Had to contact David. Had to find the Turk. But deal with this first. This first. She turned fluidly and went into the trunk of the sedan, perusing the supplies Ray had brought out here earlier in case they needed to escape. A few boxes of ammo, a laptop, two MAC-10s, and a Kalashnikov AK-74, with attached ammunition.

Hicks gave her test trials in all of these yesterday night. She fancied she was pretty good, even with only a few hours on the range. She could do this, though. She could do anything. Reprogram the Terminator, kill whoever was inside. Make everything right. Make everything good.

She grabbed the AK-74, clipped the ammunition onto her vest, and started to walk towards the building.

How odd, to have such purpose of mind, such purity unfettered by morality. Quite like a machine.

--

_Ding!_

A soft rolling noise as the elevator doors slid open. Derek Reese poked his head past the corner of the elevator carriage, staring out into the darkened hallway. Unlike about... maybe half, maybe most of the rest of the SRL building, the top floor had a rather... odd vibe to it. Odd was the best way of describing it. There was a soft, perpetual background noise in the air, a sort of humming. The halls were narrow and dark, and that seemed to be a conscious design choice. There were ceiling lights, but they were dim, and the walls were of a dark, smooth quality that seemed to consume light.

Derek just stared for a while, unable to take his eyes off the construction and just start moving. Christ, everything else in this place was bright and cheery, albeit utilitarian. Corporate. _This_ was just... creepy. It reminded him uncomfortably of...

Keeping his hands in his pocket, absently stroking the plastic metal handle of his Glock 17, Derek stepped out of the elevator and started to walk. It was a one-way hall. Only way to go was forward or back.

He kept his eyes glued to the walls, hoping to see a motivational poster, or a... hell, some _chips_ in the wall, or some shit. Anything. It was so dark, so _smooth, _light just seemed to sink into it and die. All this place needed was a bunch of steaming vents, the odd death-trap, plenty of plasma-bristling automated turrets, and no oxygen and this place would be a dead-ringer for any cookie cutter Skynet production facility.

_Oh... that's it. Holy fuck. _

That was it. It was just like that, actually. Like walking into the enemy's hideout all over again.

He kept walking. Those fucking crazies built themselves a slice of what was to come. And what motivated that? What kinds of spineless little cockroaches were these people that bald-faced lies were enough to get them to turn against their entire species? There were so many questions that would never be answered after today. What started these people, how they found out about Judgment Day before hand, how they got all this nifty equipment... You'd be crazy not to want to know, but you'd be _just_ as crazy not to take care of such lunatics as soon as possible without worrying over the smaller details.

Derek was here for the latter, and Sarah was crouching at the Infinitum Corp building waiting to bring down the hammer.

The hall opened up into a wider reception area. Some kind of light-composed image was bobbing slowly up and down in the middle of the room. Derek glared at it as he passed on to the reception desk immediately behind it; a robot head, with comically huge eyes and antennae protruding from its crown, stared back at him.

The room was cold. Like the rest of the place, the walls were dark and very smooth. If you looked hard enough, or imagined hard enough, you could probably fool yourself into thinking the place was much bigger than it really was. There was nothing around that was comforting, no plants, pottery, or decoration, which was a stunning far cry from the lobby just twenty floors down.

There was a door beyond the reception desk. The receptionist was a male, wearing a suit of body armor and black leather. For a split second you'd swear that he was only a bobbing head, the rest of him blended in so well to the room.

Derek stared at the traitor, and the traitor gazed right on back.

"Can I help you?"

Derek clicked his tongue and leaned forward. "Yeah. This David Nossbaum's office?"

Traitor nodded, utterly expressionless. It wasn't even a poker face, it was just... it wasn't _even _a face, could barely be called that.

Derek hated him, hated with a burning fury he could barely contain within himself. He didn't know this guy's name, anything about him beyond his lack of expression. That was practically indication enough of his guiltiness, his collaboration.

He scratched his chin. "He's expectin' me."

Traitor didn't even look down at his desk monitor. "No he's not. He's not here."

Were there cameras in here? "Aw, fuck, really?"

Again, the traitor nodded, for all the world as if he had to pay for every word he said.

"Can I schedule an appointment, then?"

"He's booked for two months." Traitor looked down at his monitor. "It depends on who you are. Name?"

"Derek Reese," Derek said.

"Reese..." The man started to type on the computer, diverting his attention fully away from Derek. "Hold on a moment."

Derek reached across the desk and gripped the man's jaw and temple with both his hands. "Sure thing."

The man's hands darted forward to something underneath the desk. Derek didn't allow him time to do anything beyond that; he snapped his hands to the left, eliciting a dull crack from the traitor's neck as the bones were torn in half. The man's tongue lolled out of his mouth and he died instantly, slumping to the floor out of Derek's hands. Derek cocked his head slightly and took a step backwards, scratching his chin again.

Christ, he did it so easily, so thoughtlessly. What'd that remind you of, eh?

Well, it didn't matter. He'd continued to do it "easily" and "thoughtlessly." What did that mean, anyway? Killing was killing. As long as it was for a good cause, you don't have to agonize over how it's done, right? No, not at all.

It just disturbed him a little, that's all.

Derek climbed over the desk and tucked the corpse in underneath it. The computer was sleek and black rimmed, with a fancy touch screen. The picture currently showed a standard menu with some options, mostly pertaining to Nossbaum's office. "Buzz" for example. There was also a note, minimized at the bottom of the screen. Derek cast a look around the room for a second and clicked it.

**My wife will be coming shortly. If I'm not back before the regular time, please let her in. **

**-Dave**

Derek grunted and closed out. On the menu there was another tab labeled "Check-Ins."

**9:00 AM - David Nossbaum departs on break.**

**12:45 PM - Amanda Nossbaum arrives. As per previous notation, allowed entry. **

**12:46 PM - Amanda Nossbaum returns, requires name from emails. Provided. Discussed weather, Samuel's arrival. Seemed nervous. **

**1:04 PM - Received phone call. Speaker female. Name given as Sarah Denslow. Inquired about the location of Haley Carter's office. Referred to eighth floor, skyline office. **

**1:08 PM - Incidentally, called Haley Carter's office to inquire about Denslow. Call was not received; odd. She typically works at this hour. Will investigate as soon as shift is over. (Note: delete this notation. not relevant to job.)**

**1:10 PM - Amanda Nossbaum returns again, requires conversation. Provided. Discussed latest fashions, Los Angeles operations. C. Forsythe and R. Hicks mentioned multiple times, inquired of opinion regarding them. Did not disclose. **

**1:15 PM - Amanda Nossbaum returns again, requires conversation. Provided. Discussed rumors of so-called "vampires" operating out of L.A. club, "Bliss." Has been in the news, apparently. Likely tabloids. Terminated conversation before it could grow into something even more obnoxious. Amanda seems anxious; refuses to disclose why. **

**1:20 PM - Amanda Nossbaum returns again, requires conversation. Denied. **

**1:36 PM - Carter still not answering. (delete)**

**1:44 PM - Amanda Nossbaum returns again, asks if husband has called. Responded in the negatory. Am wondering where David is myself. **

**1:55 PM - Told to expect Samuel within ten minutes. Will allow entry. **

**1:57 PM - Unknown arrives; male, aged approximately early thirties. Appears dangerous. Will finish notation soon as he leaves. **

Oh shit.

If all of that was true then... Amanda was still inside.And ten minutes until the fucking T arrived. Jesus Christ, this was gonna have to go quicker than he'd anticipated... Derek closed out of the menu and stepped away from the desk, turning back to look at the door.

Still closed. What was she doing in there? Filling in for her husband? He started towards it, reaching into his coat for the pistol again. Well. What she was doing hardly mattered-

The door creaked open slightly revealing a practical deluge of light from within. _Fucking-_ Derek caught a flash of fancy wallpaper and general splendor as a woman filled in the gap. "Oh, Robert?"

Derek slowly walked to the side, pressing himself against the curved navy blue wall. The woman --probably Amanda-- trotted forward into the reception area, hands on her hips. She was wearing some kind of yellow jumper, was kind of on the fat side, and had one of those top-up hair style things; beehives, Sarah called them. It was brownish red. Long, incredibly curved and complex looking rings dangled from each ear. Derek stopped breathing and slowly removed the Glock from his coat as she approached the desk.

"Robert?" She stopped at the chair, her high-heeled shoes making loud _clack! _sounds as they froze. "Rober... OH!"

She was looking down. Derek grimaced. Hadn't hid ol' Robert well enough.

"Are you alright?!"

Derek aimed at her head, gradually tightening on the trigger...

Gah. No. Restraint, Reese. Shooting her would obviously draw blood, and the T would be up here any minute. Christ, were there any cameras up here? Amanda was crouching over late Robert's corpse, prodding him. Derek quietly slipped over to the door and pushed it open slightly, testing to see if it'd creak. It glided over the floor smoothly, without sound.

He slammed his fist against it, using the butt of the pistol.

Amanda shrieked and whirled around, catching Derek just as he disappeared into her husband's office.

"Who- WAIT!"

Loud clacking sounds as the high-heels gave chase. Derek frowned as he took cover next to the door, aiming the pistol. Dumb, or merely protective?

The office was a startling juxtaposition from the preceding lobby. It was... quiet seeming, understated. Floral wallpaper, a few pillars in the antechamber, and a bunch of bookshelves and a simple desk with a computer monitor. Derek found himself searching for any extraneous doors, hatches... anything that would lead to some sort of secret staging area, maybe their own personal time machine, training chambers, armories...

Nothing, though. Nothing that he could see, anyhow.

"Out, out, out! What did you do to Robert!" She pushed the door open, sending it flying towards Derek. He blinked as he stopped it with his hand, dully noting that he could have gotten a few teeth knocked out if he'd been slower, and smacked it right on back.

Amanda didn't have as much luck. The flying door caught her in the head and shoulder with a loud _crack!_ She squawked in pain and toppled to the floor, hands splayed out in front of her head. Derek caught sight of a small .38 revolver clutched in her hand as she fell. He walked forward, bent down, and snatched the pistol out of her receding grasp.

For some reason he found himself checking the swing-out cylinder. He was expecting it to be loaded, and he wasn't disappointed. Here was a woman straight out of an old magazine ad toting around a fucking pistol, in bed with the goddamned machines. Dirt. Fucking dirt. How could you go on having faith in the fucking human race if this was all you ever found when you dug deeply enough? Nihilism, self-destruction, the need for chaos. It was fucking sick.

Somehow Derek went on. He'd seen too much of people's bad sides and good sides during the war, and the good sides far outweighed the bad. Sometimes. You couldn't always be sure. Humanity was still worthy enough to go on fighting for, though, even in the face of something like _this. _

Derek knelt over, keeping the business end of his Glock pointed firmly against the woman's back. She stiffened up like a two-by-four.

"Move and I shoot," Derek said calmly.

"Oh, dear, oh dear, oh... dear. Please, don't!"

Derek tilted his head and grinned like a shark. Not that she could see it; "Don't what? Don't shoot? Like you were about to shoot me?"

"N-no-no n-n-no, no! I wasn't, it's just for self defense, dear!"

Derek tossed the .38 across the room. "Would you have felt guilty?"

"W-wh-what?"

"_Would you have felt guilty?!"_

"About sh-sho-shooting you? Ye-ye-yes, yes! Dear, yes, I wuh-would, I o-only meant inti-ti-t-imida-"

Derek jabbed the muzzle into Amanda's back. She screamed. "_Would you feel the same FUCKING way about killing three billion people?!"_

And she stopped. She went very silent, very quickly. She stopped moving. Dear God, she really was involved.

"Well?" Derek rasped.

Nothing. She was breathing in short gasps, as though fighting tooth and nail for each draw of air. Jesus Christ, he didn't have time for this...

"Alright," Derek whispered, slowly thumbing the safety.

"You're one of them." She spoke slowly, without the hysteria of before. Somehow things had changed.

"Tech-Com, yeah. Very good, bitch. I'm glad you've been doing your homework. Now die."

"_Wait!"_

"Why should I?"

"You don't _know_ what you're _doing! _Please, please, please. Just go away, dear, _please!_"

Derek leaned in and spoke against her shaking head. "Then make me understand."

"You can't!"

He laughed. "What am I, some kinda heathen, Amanda? I can't understand because _God_ doesn't want me to?"

She was silent.

"You... are a bunch of lunatics. You were tricked with razzle fucking dazzle. Let me tell you, this is not what _God _wants, y'hear me? It ain't what _God_ wants."

"DO NOT PRESUME TO KNOW! Oh please, Lord..." Amanda said, her voice breaking and shuddering as she forced the words out. "Please preserve me, please, please, please."

Derek stood back. "Whad'ya see Samuel as, huh? Huh? An angel, Amanda? Is he an angel to you?"

She was mumbling. He couldn't understand her. She looked so frightened, like, pasty white all over, just _jittering _constantly.

"I don't understand... how you can think that what you're doing here is right."

_"You... idiot,_" she said. "He's _shown us._ Jesus is coming, you cannot obstruct Him, and oh yes, he's coming, he will come with the machines _destroying, paving his path for Him,_ CLEANSING!-"

Derek's cellphone rumbled in his pocket.

"Ah, goddamnit."

He fired and pulled the phone out of his jeans. "Yep?"

The spent shell clattered to the floor. Derek grabbed Amanda's limp arm and started to pull her.

"Car just pulled up," said Sarah Connor, "It had a guy in full clothing come out of it."

"Right, I'm in David's office." He left Amanda's corpse behind a plant and grimaced at the bloody line him dragging her around had left. Maybe some paper towels around here... But first thing's first. He walked over to the back of the office, which had a very long, very tall panoramic view of Sacramento displayed through its window. Currently shuttered. Derek looked around for a brief second along the nearby walls, searching for a button. He found it located conveniently underneath the window itself, and he gave it a firm press.

The corrugated metal shutters quickly retracted up into the ceiling, revealing the skyline and the Infinitum Corp building across Capitol Mall. Another button caused the window itself to slide up, allowing a terrible howling of high-altitude wind to roar inside.

Derek waved.

"Haha, hey Derek," Sarah said.

"You got a good view?"

"Might have to compensate for wind speed, that sort of thing, but it's good. Get outta there."

Derek looked back around the office. Big ol' splotch of blood, dead security guard in the reception area. _Should really learn to restrain myself, _he thought dully. Goddamn.

"Nah. I think I'll stick around."

"Now's not the time for sarcasm."

"I'm dead serious."

"You're _what?" _Sarah groaned. "Get the hell out of there, Derek."

Derek rubbed the backside of his neck. "I made a bit of a mess coming through, and the T's gonna notice. I'd better stay, y'know, so I can get its attention."

"A fucking pistol won't do you any good-"

"Distraction only. You're still making the killing shot."

"_Derek Reese get your ass back here _now."

Derek cocked his head and thumbed the red _end call_ button. He turned back to the skylight and smiled brightly.

Okay... fairly big office, but not a lot of cover. Maybe the book cases? Bah. Security could be on its fucking way up as he stood there dawdling. Security or something much worse, of course.

First, he looked around a bit for some paper towels and maybe some cleanex, but he couldn't find anything other than tissues. Amanda's innards were swiftly congealing on the floor, so there wasn't much he could do anyway. Best to just hide.

He took cover behind the desk; it offered pretty good coverage on the underside, as it turned out. The top of it was bestrewn with random papers and a computer. Christ, it was the very picture of the corporate CEO, and here he was... a fucking madman bent on bringing over the apocalypse. Where were the training facilities, the secret bank accounts, the goddamned armories that supported this little cult? Could they even survive without their Terminator benefactor and their leaders?

He had to hope that they wouldn't.

He found himself looking over at Amanda's corpse. Did he feel bad about _that? _Even _that? _

Didn't matter anymore. He had bigger fish to fry now. Bigger fish on the order of coltan steel and a cunning CPU mind, riding the elevator up towards Derek as he crouched there, hiding like a rat. There was an incredibly good chance, along with any other old Terminator encounter, that he would die.

Hopefully it wouldn't be this onethat'd do him in. He raised the pistol up near his head and stared at it for a long time before looking towards the door again.

Christ, how he wanted to be back home. John and Cameron couldn't possibly be going through as much excitement as this.

--

Mike Oxferod knocked twice on the interrogation room door. With his hand still hovering, he looked back towards the library he'd just finished scouting out. Still dead. Still empty. Well, it hadn't _quite_ been that... John left some poor bastard alive, and Mike decided that it would be more prudent simply to get rid of him. So he did.

Christ, it was like some self-fulfilling angst of his, killing people for little reason. Hell, being _eager_ to kill alone was...

It was scary that he felt more horrible about the _idea_ of him killing without remorse than the actual act itself. The guy was dead now, the library was cleared now, and that was basically it. Time to leave.

"Password!" John said from behind the door.

"Fuck you," Mike replied, grinning.

The door swung inward, revealing John and his bodyguard within. John was holstering his Beretta 92, while Cameron lowered the M4A1 carbine she'd picked up.

"Clear?" John asked, nodding slightly. He was seriously weirding Mike out with his sudden bubbliness, because... like, ten minutes ago he'd been all withdrawn and moany. Was finding Cameron that much of a boon to him? Or was it something else?

Mike shrugged to no one in particular; mostly to himself in fact. Who was he to complain? And why _even_ complain? Why complain about anything? They'd won. John was gonna stick around, Cameron was fine, and Mike... well, yeah, he had some problems, but they weren't important. Not really. He'd already gotten it off his chest with Cameron, put it right there in the open. He just wanted a little closure as far as John was concerned, really.

That'd have to wait, though.

"Yeah, and we should leave. C'mon."

John nodded towards Cameron; they both started walking. As he walked past Mike pressed an MP5 into John's hands. He grabbed it with one hand, blinking at it as if it were... well, _anything_ other than the gun he'd previously been using.

"Where'd you find this?" John asked.

"Near that guy you dropped."

"Yeah. Was he still there?"

Mike smiled and shrugged. "Nah, he was gone. Guess he ran."

John gripped the submachine gun with a bit more conviction. Mike went on smiling.

Man, he could probably learn something from this. John was surrounded by killers all the friggen' time and he didn't do a single bit of it himself. The amazing thing was that it didn't seem to hamper him one bit. Was it necessarily a good thing, though? To stay your hand when it'd be easier just to pull the trigger?

John had already chosen. And that was the thing, wasn't it? A choice. Mike just killed without thinking. The high road, then, wasn't killing, right?

Gah, maybe it was all subjective. It was funny, he'd spent his life running on automatic, and only recently did he do any hard philosophizing. It was kind of neat, though it hurt his head a lot.

He wondered if John did any hard thinking himself. Probably. Mike would certainly get to know more about _all _of this when everything got settled down and they were back home. And Christ, did Mike have a lot to do. Talk to Philip, Cheri... avoid the cops, maybe get a new identity for himself... and think things over, definitely. He just needed to take a step back and think about it all, decide on what he was gonna do, because he was done with just doing shit on the spur of the moment. It tended to mess things up. He was done with simply acting, done with simply _being, _and now he was gonna start _thinking, _goddamnit!Making something of himself beyond just being a regular grunt. Being an asset was what he wanted, really. Appreciated. Sure, you could call it selfish, but here he had the opportunity to actually help _prevent_ all of this from ever happening in the first place. It was intoxicating to think about, to think that you'd fought all those years and this was like... a reward, or something. You can stop it. Stop it before it ever happens. Spare yourself and your younger self the agony of Judgment Day. Who wouldn't want it?

So yeah, a lot to do. Lot to do.

"Mike?"

Mike blinked again and looked up. John was suddenly a lot further down the hall now, and Cameron even further than that. They were both staring at him, frowning. Jeez, had he stopped?

Michael smiled sheepishly and started to pick up his feet a little, closing the distance between him and John. "Yeah, sorry."

"You alright?" They kept up a brisk pace, heading for the exit. If memory served, the nearest door was probably across the library. Cameron seemed to know instinctively where to go, though.

"Yeah," Mike said. "I just got a little lost there." He sighed.

John looked down, scuffing his foot a tad on the carpeted floor. "Uh, we'll talk a little later, okay?"

Mike shrugged. "We're cool, John. I was just thinking, that's all."

"We're alright?" He looked worried. And why not? He had every reason to be. He didn't want a relationship with Mike on _that_ level. It just wouldn't happen. Natural to worry about it.

Mike nodded empathetically. "Absolutely, dude. It's all good." Was he convincing? Was he being truthful? Mike barely knew himself. It was okay, though. For now they'd came to terms. Mike wasn't gonna mope about it.

John nodded slowly, grinning. "Okay... okay, yeah. Alright. Let's get outta here, c'mon."

Amazing what goes on in the background, eh? The whole thing, the whole situation, the whole _concept_ of fighting against the machines, the enemies from the future, it read like a goddamned science fiction story. It was real, of course. You'd expect some pretty gritty characters in something like that, but on the inside you've got... something like this. John was panicky as a rule. Cameron? A sociopath with the capacity to understand. Mike wasn't even gonna _start_ on himself, but it didn't concern him. Didn't make him feel bad. He liked it. He liked that this was real, that this was _now, _that they'd had their problems, their adversaries, and that in the end it all worked out. Not strictly to the way he wanted, but it was enough for now.

He just wished he could have the ability to... see the endgame, y'know. See how it would_ all_ work out in the end. Victory or defeat. Time travel doesn't necessarily give you clairvoyance. As far as Mike was concerned, that was the past, not the future. The future was in flux, they could change it, make it all better, fashion a _world_ out of their struggle. It felt impossible. Felt lofty. Felt dangerous.

It was the life they lived now, though, and if Mike could be part of that, contribute something to that... then in the end... he'd have done his part. That was all there was to it.

--

Cameron Phillips rounded the bookshelf, shadowed by John and Michael. Right, and up ahead was the... door, if her scans were to be relied upon. The exit to this place. Her eyes settled on it.

Her scans were correct, but they had not, annoyingly enough, indicated the fact that Cameron Forsythe would be standing there, holding an AK-74 in her hands.

**Hostility likely. Terminate.**

She was only too eager to comply with that. The M4A1 was raised as her targeting parameters plotted the waiting bullets course.

"Cam?"

Forsythe shrieked, a noise of immensely pent-up rage and frustration. She ran to the side almost as soon as Cameron opened up with the assault rifle, spoiling the killing shot. Forsythe disappeared behind a bookshelf on her left.

"Jesus!" John yelled. "What the f-"

"There's another one," Cameron said cooly. She looked back toward Michael. "She just arrived; not your fault."

Mike ignored that. "What's she got? It's a woman, right?"

Cameron was quiet for a few seconds, straining to hear Forsythe as she stalked about the library. That Kalashnikov had a ton of killing power; she needed to be dealt with immediately. "Yes, a woman. Stay here with John and don't move. I'll be right back."

"Cameron..." Mike began.

She raised a slight hand, lowered it just as quick, and went off into the rows of bookshelves without so much as a glance backwards. Her HUD was working overtime to figure out where the bitch with her face was hiding, and it wouldn't be long now.

--

"Fuckers," Cameron Forsythe muttered as she struggled to pull the remote out of her vest. Jesus Christ, they killed them _all. _Ray, Alan... she hadn't found Hicks, but it _wasn't_ a fucking stretch to assume he was dead, too. A little while ago... y'know, it was funny. A little while ago Hicks had told her nothing else mattered but revenge, the goddamned _tool. _Then he started to soften, started to get all cowardly, and_ it was funny, _she started to think... _well, I've got nothing else, so maybe he's got a point. _

The sudden switch-around with Hicks really was ironic. When he died, he probably died screaming for his life. So _competent, _so efficient until he started using that brain of his. Some people are just better off stupid.

And now he was dead. Dead, and she was alone, with nothing but a gun and her last ace-in-the-hole. Robots, robots, robots. He built her, _cultivated_ her to love those things. And now none of it mattered, because he was dead, _had been_ dead, and now Hicks was gone too, the only remaining fixture. Samuel was bullshit. The cult was bullshit, goddamned end-of-the-world happy crazies.

What irony it would be to do their job for them, eh? She wasn't gonna get the stinking chess computer for them after all, _no. _She had nothing. Why give something? Maybe she'd come after David and his fiends next. Kill all the assholes who'd ruined her, destroyed her, Kill Bill style! There'd be nothing romantic about it, though. Nothing.

Perfection was what she'd aspired for, perfection was what she grossly lacked all of a sudden, and now there was nothing left to do but make everyone else _miserable. _Would she burn out? Probably. If she thought about it too much, gave in too much. She'd transform, though. Transform and become single purposed. Not to change anything. To destroy. How _freeing_ it is to have zero restraints.

Bullets slashed through the bookshelf she was crouching behind, punching and exploding into the concrete wall. She felt the remote in her grasp, just _waiting,_ but she couldn't... get it free...

"You must think I'm an _IDIOT!"_ she yelled.

No response. She heard footsteps, light and hurried as they headed towards her. Cameron gave another jerk to the remote. It was stuck on something.

"You think I didn't plan for this?!"

No response. Such a beauty she was, that Terminator. Singleminded, an expert at killing from the day she was created. She was built and she acted with one perfect thing in mind; death. Daddy had admired her kind for all the wrong reasons.

The remote pulled free from whatever was keeping it in her vest pocket. Cameron grunted in satisfaction and took it out, looking down on it. It was about the size of an old-fashioned cell phone, a lot of wires and complexity. Several buttons ran down its length. Cameron had built this when she just started working at SRL, in case the "model" she'd been given to work with turned out to be mass-produced after all. They could make a lot of money on accessory products, after all. It was tied directly to the _second_ movement-stopping device she'd slung onto the robot's spine, lower than the other one, and more subtly hidden. Always have a goddamned backup plan. They thought she was a fucking idiot, but she was going to prove them wrong. She _always_ _took _steps, _the right steps. _

You can stop your robot friend at any time! Just press the button and it freezes up!

"Are you listening?!" She got up and peered past the bookcase. Nothing but old carts and a ladder. Plenty of books... but...

Cameron blinked as cold steel touched the back of her head.

"Yes," came the Terminator's voice.

Cameron stabbed the button. _Please work. _She winced and shut her eyes, feeling a cold sweat overtake her entire body.

And waited... a few seconds. Beat. Beat. Beat went her heart. The muzzle of the carbine fell away. Cameron immediately opened her eyes and turned around. The robot stared up at Cameron with something resembling hatred, her arms and legs prostrate and at a weird angle.

Cameron giggled with glee. "Ah. Great. Right back where you started. You still listening?"

The robot did absolutely nothing. It just stared at her with that piercing glare.

"Great. You can just sit there and _listen_ as I kill your boyfriend, girlie. How does that strike you?"

The robot opened her mouth. "JOHN, RUN!"

_Stupid, stupid, stupid! _

"Shut up," Cameron hissed.

_"Cameron!" _Male. Connor. Probably. Couldn't be anyone else. Christ, she had to shut this thing up.

Who were they yelling to? She wheeled back to the robot and knelt down, ripping a magazine of pistol ammunition out of her pocket. "What's your name?"

"Cameron," the robot responded. She opened her mouth again to yell.

Cameron Forsythe cocked her head and stuffed the mag into her mouth. And pushed. The yell immediately degraded to loud mumbling. Cameron winced as she felt resistance; teeth. She pushed harder, hearing a sickening sound as several molars were chipped away. The hefty magazine of ammunition sat there in... _Cameron the Robot's_ mouth. What an interesting coincidence, that.

Cameron the Robot immediately bashed her head onto the carpet, shaking the magazine loose from her mouth.

"Oh, you bitch," Cameron Forsythe growled, pushing it further in until she could feel it pounding down her throat, making an _incredibly _creepy _clang!_ noise each time she pushed.

_"Cam!"_

The robot went on bashing her head. Cameron stared down at her for a few seconds as this happened before nodding to herself. It'd stay for the time being.

Now then...

Cameron grabbed the M4A1 carbine and pulled the trigger three times, being careful to aim the thing up into the ceiling.

"I'm coming back!" Cameron Forsythe yelled. "She's dead." She looked down at the "real" Cameron and smirked.

And the robot just stared back. Cameron sniffed and slowly pulled the action on the Kalashnikov.

"You stay here," Cameron Forsythe said, "I'll be right back."

--

"Let's get out of here."

John shook his head for what was probably the umpteenth time. "Dude, she said she was coming back."

Mike was holding a hand up to his mouth, and he kept breathing through his fingers. He looked really nervous, and that sudden change from the... well, _niceness_ that John had observed in him was fucking scary.

"Mike..." John said.

"I-I know, let's just go, okay? We'll meet her at the door. Or wait outside. Let's just get outta here, okay? Let's just go."

John nodded slowly, hefting the MP5 in his hands. "Yeah, sure. She's coming back though. We should..."

He looked at Mike again and stared into the older boy's eyes. He saw nothing but... terror. It was blunt, animalistic looking. Superstitious, almost.

And it was contagious.

"Oh," John said, barely breathing. "Yeah. Let's go. I'll la-lead the way. That good?"

Mike nodded rapidly. He kept looking around the bookshelves. John took in a deep breath and tried to calm himself down, just slow his breathing, think clearly and rationally. Cameron was fine. The cultist she went after was dead. They heard the exchange themselves. There was the "run" part, sure, but...

But it was nothing. They heard her afterwards. It was _fine. _She was gonna come back...

... and they'd be waiting outside, that was all. Yeah. Simple.

Well. Well. Yeah. Well. _Stop that. _

"Follow me."

They walked, keeping their paces steady and unhurried, yet brisk enough to make the rows of shelves seem to fly by. Desks went by, chairs, carts, books and books and books.

You know, the thought just wouldn't leave him: this place seemed _really_ familiar, but John was positive that he'd only been in here once, and that was today. All of a sudden though... all of a sudden the place seemed to go from dank and boring to... dark. And freaky. And your footsteps seemed to echo unnaturally loud. Breathing, too. John could hear Mike really clearly; he was wheezing somewhat. He had a perpetual wheeze, really, but it was only now that John noticed that. All those years with ash and radiation, sure...

Dead silence as they moved. And _nothing_ moved besides their legs. You could look through the bookshelves at... well, more bookshelves, and beyond that, more bookshelves still. And nothing moved between those bookshelves. It all seemed frozen. Brown. Gray. A sea of those two colors.

Where the fuck was Cameron? She should have _fucking_ showed up by now, they should have been able to at least see her coming towards them, _hear her, you could hear a fucking pin drop in this place. _Instead they just. heard. nothing.

"W-wait, stop." John blurted, "Hold up."

"John-"

"Stop."

They stopped.

And utter, ultimate silence dropped forward. Not a whisper of noise. No footsteps.

The library was a forest. A dark, evil forest. With absolutely no movement. You couldn't see past the trees in front of you. John suddenly felt as if a thousand eyes had opened. And all were fixed on him.

Same old routine. Terror. Cold, freezing terror. You're comfortable here, Johnny. And you don't like it.

"Okay," John said... "Okay, yeah. C'mon."

"Let's run."

"Yeah, let's run."

And yeah, that's what they did. They ran. John continued to force his body to maintain composure, to not fold up in fear. Empty your mind. Enjoy the act of running. Remember -- tire distracts. Concentrate on the destination. The door was a little way's off; it was the way they'd entered. Quiet, functional. Steel. Grey. And it was all right. It was good. They were gonna get there. The door was getting closer. He could almost reach out, touch it. God, where the fuck was Cameron? She had to be somewhere. She'd yelled to them. It was alright. They were going nuts over _nothing, _over tension alone. Pent up tension. It explodes however it can, and this is it. You're just panicking. It's fine. Cameron's right there, y'see. She's at the place where she left you. She's confused because you're not there. Yeah. You'll hear her voice any second now.

Hear her voice.

Hear-

There was a loud, rattling, _shattering_ explosion of noise to John's immediate left. Gunfire, he could attribute it immediately; AK-47 or some variant. Really good gun, _really_ fucking dangerous. Bullets whined past. He yelled out in terror and started to sprint.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" Mike yelled.

"RUN!"

"Wait!" someone said, off to John's side. Cameron. Cameron's voice. It was her. Kinda high-pitched, but that was okay. She almost hit them. She could afford to sound panicked about that, even if _she was a robot and couldn't necessarily feel panic-_

"Wait!"

"Cam!"

"Hold on!"

Oh god, oh god. He stopped. Mike skidded to a halt a little behind John and forcefully pulled back the slide on his Beretta. "John, _run,_" he hissed.

John said nothing. He could hear footsteps. He stared ahead towards the door. It was so close.

But it was fine, because Cameron was coming. They were about to leave. It was fine. She didn't mean to shoot. He could forgive her for that.

why switch rifles

Oh god.

What the fuck was...

He turned slightly to his left and watched Cameron stride out from behind a book case, an AK-74 assault rifle held in her hands. Her hair was done up in a tight pony-tail, she was wearing not her jacket but some kind of amalgam of black leather and kevlar.

Like the cultists. Like that guy John saw to the door.

He felt like he'd just been nailed over the head. Was he dreaming? Was he still at the party? Or at Allison's club? Maybe he was sleeping. There were a couple of frankly dream like elements here. That whole thing with the dumpster, Mike kissing him, them fighting the cultists and not even getting scratched, Cameron getting that shutdown. Pretty deus ex machina, right? Like she could shutdown that easily. And the kicker; him deciding to go back, to stop running away. That was the kicker, yeah. He was a rank coward in real life. He wouldn't do this. Mike was still at a hospital. He was still at Allison's. Or even the party. Maybe he'd wake up in a drunken daze, and there'd be some guy who looked like him sitting around.

Maybe he'd wake up and it'd be even before that. Maybe none of this happened.

But... if he realized that it was a dream then didn't that mean he was supposed to wake up?

All he fucking knew was that that couldn't be Cameron, and it was impossible.

Mike raised his pistol.

"Cameron" aimed the assault rifle at John's head. "Hey boys. Drop the guns."

John blinked. Oh Jesus Christ. "Cameron, what...?"

The woman glared at John as she moved ever closer. "The guns. Drop them. Now. Or you're dead." She shot a look at Michael and his pistol. "Oooh, can't risk that, right?"

Mike was completely silent.

She stopped walking and spoke loudly and clearly: "Five, four, three-"

John tossed the MP5. Mike chucked the pistol. John cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady; "Who the fuck are you?"

The woman tilted her head. "Oh... I'm Cameron. Don't you know that? I'm Cameron, standing right in front of you, John Connor. That's the truth, isn't it? I'm not lying. I'm Cameron."

"Where's Cameron?" Michael asked calmly. He didn't seem so nervous anymore. John also realized that he had more adrenaline coursing through him than raw fear. Maybe it was better to face your fears than to just... be in suspense, right? He felt pissed off.

"_I'm_ Cameron." She giggled.

_"FUCK YOU, where is she?!"_ John screamed. He regretted the words almost immediately, and he had to stop himself from taking a step forward to punctuate them.

Cameron sighed. "Getting a little nervous, aren't you?"

John took a step forward; screw it. Goddamnit, but he was stupid sometimes. The gun jerked toward him as he said; "Where. Is she?!"

"Step back."

"Fuck you!"

"_Step back."_

"Hey," Mike said, "C'mon. Step back."

John gasped out a haggard breath and took a back step. If looks could kill the bitch would have been ash by now.

"Wonderful," the woman said. She looked contemplative for a moment. "Jesus..." she blinked rapidly, as though light-headed. "Uhhh, I want you both to turn around. And kneel."

_Oh god. OH FUCKING GOD. _

"Wait," John said. Oh, Jesus, things were good, things had been going so fucking well, he was _happy he was back, READY, _he was there, Mike _was there,_ Cameron was _there_, they were all good, they were all fine, everyone was fine, _safe,_ they were ready to go home, resume shit, get shit done, fight Skynet.

And now he was gonna die. This woman who looked like Cameron was gonna execute them. He didn't understand it, he couldn't wrap his head around it... oh god...

"No. No waiting. Kneel, or I'm gonna shoot."

"_Look, please..._"

"Do. It. John Connor."

John shuddered. He couldn't do it. Couldn't turn. He had to fucking jump at her, or something, take a risk. He couldn't turn.

"Hey," Mike said. "You should get our goddamned names right, you bitch."

John blinked.

The woman flicked her eyes over at Michael. "What?"

Mike took a step forward. His eyes flicked over to John very rapidly, and he nodded a practically invisible nod. _Get ready. _

The assault rifle jerked, making a loud _clack_ sound.

"If you're gonna kill us," Mike said, "You should get our names right at least."

"I don't understand." The woman frowned desperately. She was gonna fucking explode. What the fuck was Mike doing?

Mike pointed at himself. "Oh, _Christ,_ you stupid bitch. It's me. I'm John Connor. If you're gonna fucking shoot us, at least get our names right."

Cameron blinked. "Who's that, then?" She didn't even look at John.

"Aaron Bentley," Mike said. He spoke quietly. There was hardly any emotion in the boy's voice.

"Oh." She turned to him, seeming to forget John's existence entirely. "Turn around then, Connor. You're nothing like I imagined..."

"Sorry," Mike said.

Oh... Jesus... fucking Christ. John stared at Michael, unable to take his eyes away. He gawked. His jaw seemed to hang on hinges. Cold sweat. No. _No_. What was he doing-

The woman lowered her voice and spoke slowly, biting off, _enunciating_ every word, every syllable. "You've ruined everything, you know that? You're about to get what's coming to you. Coming to you, and a thousand times more. Turn around." She aimed down the sight, pointing the muzzle at Mike.

Mike quickly nodded to John again. In that moment they stared directly into each other's eyes, and John beheld... absolutely nothing. He was blank as a slate.

And like a chameleon shedding its camouflage, his face burst with a sad sort of fondness.His mouth moved, and no words came out. John understood anyway. _I love you. _

And then Michael went straight for her. "Fuck you, you stupid bitch. _Fuck y-"_

The woman blinked and pulled the trigger. Mike stiffened up as blood fountained out through his back and seemed to hang in the air, transfixed, frozen in time.

John wasn't frozen. He was already moving. He dashed forward and punched the woman in the face before she could turn the AK fully around, his other hand pushing down against the assault rifle. It tumbled out of her grasp as she pinwheeled backwards, a grunt of pain escaping her.

Her leg kicked out, slamming into John's knees. He toppled alongside her, falling onto her. And he punched her. She punched back. They fell together onto the floor and laid there for a few seconds, staring wildly around, both unbelieving, unregistering of what had just transpired.

"ME!" John yelled. "IT'S ME, _I'M_ JOHN CONNOR!"

She turned and slammed her forehead into his face. John saw stars. Not even stars, too. Galaxies, whole nebulae. It was like getting smashed with iron rebar. They both yelled in pain and recoiled from each other, John scrambling to stand up. The woman tried to grab his legs, but he shook her grip off.

In a split second, the only second he could fucking spare, he saw Mike on the floor, a pool of... oh they must have been painting. It barely looked real. Coincidence. Bright, _insanely_ bright redness surrounded Mike's form as he laid there. That was all John processed.

He got up on his feet and sprinted for the door. And it was just him and the door for a few seconds of blissful silence. The next conscious thing John registered was a line of bullets piercing on past him, striking the door with a rattling sound of metal striking metal.

Couldn't do it. She'd cut him in half if he kept going this way. John forcibly tore the door from his view and whipsawed to the left, throwing himself behind a bookcase as assault rounds tore up and exploded around him. He collapsed to the ground and held his knees up to his chest, rocking up and down as he tried to draw in air.

"MOTHER FUCKER!" the woman yelled. The AK roared and he could hear her moving, hear her moving towards _him. _

He had to get out of here. Where was Cameron and Mike? Mike was... oh god. Oh, _no. Jesus God, where was Cameron then?! _He fucking needed her, _needed her help, her protection, NEEDED HER._

That couldn't be her over there. It couldn't be, so Cameron was still around. Still near. Still inside. He could find her. They could do something, together, about _her, _this woman.

Concrete flash-pulverized and rained down over John's head. The assault rifle screamed on incessantly like a person who'd been damned to eternal _hellfire_. Getting closer. To him.

"Oh _fuck, oh god,"_ John whispered, trying in vain to catch his breath. When did it all go so wrong? Breathe. One second. Two seconds. _Three._ Alright, time's up. Up again. He was up again. Down the aisle, into the sea of bookshelves and urbane office materials. Up again. Had to run, had to get out. Running again. _MOVE. _

_"GET BACK HERE!"_

YOU RUN, YOU RUN, THAT'S ALL YOU DO NOW! YOU RUN!


	16. The Fourth Figure

**Away**

Chapter Sixteen: The Fourth Figure

He always told Cheri that she should value each day, no matter what the weather, the events, or the people she saw. And for some reason he just didn't feel that it connected with her in any meaningful way. Not anymore, at least.

_It's raining._

_Go outside and enjoy it._

_It's too windy. _

_Let your hair blow out; it feels awesome. _

_There was this asshole at school today. _

_It takes more muscles to frown than to smile; smile and walk away. _

_That pervert guidance counselor keeps calling me to his office._

_Don't go. _

_This kid keeps bugging me, I think he likes me. _

_Ignore him. _

Philip is always up in arms over everything himself. It was either keeping her from getting a cold, getting harassed, or... anything, really. He's scared to death for her.

And usually he's scared to death for his foster son, Michael, too. But not today. Today he is gone. Yesterday they were cold and they kicked him out. So today he goes to school from the playground. He does not visit home first, because they would slam the door in his face. For good enough reasons, but it still doesn't feel too great. He doesn't like it. He feels confused. Angry. Stressed. Philip wanted him to adjust to a life he isn't and never will be familiar with, no matter what his father wants.

And recently it has became obvious just how much Mike has refused to follow his "father's" wishes. His place in the family has become precarious. Cheri has stopped loving him.

It makes him feel empty. The only comfort in the world seems to have withered and died. Maybe Philip would let him back into the house tonight, but he doubts it. He needs to talk with Cheri and set things to rights... somehow.

Mike goes to school as he usually does. There are a bunch of people with a bunch of things that look... so archaic, yet fantastic. The clothes they wear are hardly functional, all screaming some kind of logo or point. Some sort of politics. And the cellphones, so big and needlessly complex. He feels displaced here, looking on as an outsider, a critic to their standardized existence.

"It's kinda cold outside," Cheri says as she leaves chemistry. She stood near Michael across the hall, near the lockers. She does not look at him. People file out of the classroom, including a boy with long bangs over his head and a slacker-jacket, shadowed by his oft stoic sister.

Who is a robot.

"It's alright," Mike says, watching the two leave. Cheri tracks his eyes and scoffs.

"Who're watching Mike? Him or her?"

Their eyes meet, and Michael sees a glare. She isn't happy.

Mike can't find anything to say to that of course. Nothing that wouldn't make things worse. All he does is think _Who're _you_ watching? _

She's watching emo-bangs, same as him.

"Let's go outside," Mike says, hefting his book bag. It has a weight most would feel taxed in carrying but he himself finds light.

"Not with you." Cheri crosses her arms. She's staring after the two herself.

"Cheri..."

"I don't want to be around you for now, okay? Just leave me alone."

Mike spreads his hands. "You remember what I told you the first day we met?"

Cheri looks at him for the second time in the conversation. She nods. "Yeah, Mike. You told me not to fall in love with you. I guess I know why now."

"This isn't fair, Cheri."

She turns for the third and last time, and now they just stare at each other for a long, long while. Mike loves her, probably just as much as she loved him. But it's not in the way she wants it, and that is what's hurting her. She found that out the hard way.

"I need to think about this, Mike," she whispers. "We can't talk about this right now."

"Talk to him," Mike says. "Please. Talk to Philip."

"I'll talk to our _father," _Cheri snaps. "Cause that's all he's gonna be for the two of us, isn't it?"

He wonders what she means by that, because she doesn't elaborate and she walks off, leaving him to stand there and glare in her passage.

Thirty minutes later he finds emo-bangs talking with her at a lunch table, and he sees red. He walks toward them. She's doing this to spite him, and it's not gonna be her that pays for it.

--

Michael stared up at the ceiling, and he couldn't take his eyes off the dank spot up there for a long time. It was really big, and it probably leaked when it rained. It was raining now, wasn't it? That was probably why he felt wet.

He could hear gunfire, but it was only an echo. He could barely hear anything except for a long, horrible sucking sound in his chest. Everything else, all of it, even the loud rattling of bullets was only a whisper.

He just stared. And he kept shuddering and shaking, because he felt terribly cold. It was a chill that penetrated quite literally. Making his insides feel hardened and full of ice. There was also pain, but it was only a ghost. He felt a swirl of sensations, and the pain was only part of all that.

A face peered down upon him at one point. It was a face that belonged to Cameron Phillips, but wasn't actually her. The face looked on for a few seconds before drawing a magazine of ammunition off her chest, and she slammed it home into an AK-47 assault rifle. Then she was gone, stomping away.

Michael wished he could look around to see where she was going, but it was just too hard. He needed some rest.

And oh god, he was still alive.

--

It was a bad rerun.

That was all John Connor could think of for now. All he allowed into his mind besides the word "run," and variations thereof. "Sprint," for example, also worked for his purposes. "Fly" worked too, to a degree, but only as a wish.

He'd live through this before. This was a repeat. A rerun. Of what, though, he couldn't completely understand. It was hanging there, right on the tip of his tongue. He just couldn't get around it. And if he tried, he would stumble. He would fall. And he would die.

A stream of bullets flew past him as he finished clearing the aisle; she was right behind him. It was only luck that her aim was so off, or he'd be in too many pieces to care about the fact; he dove to the right and yelled in terror as a line of books right above his head exploded into bits of felt and paper.

This was all getting rather annoying, in a cosmic sort of way.

He kept himself kneeled down onto the ground; go low, keep it fast, and stay out of sight. She kept _finding_ him, though, and he didn't feel as if his luck was about to hold out any longer than it already had.

He was crying pretty blatantly, and he let himself do it. Tears just flew out from his eyes, not blurring them up, getting themselves good and spent so he could concentrate. Michael was dead, Cameron was disabled or dead, and he was gonna die unless he ran away.

Go home. Stay there. Possibly kill himself? How the fuck could he go on after screwing up so royally, so completely? It had all been going so good, _so good. _And now... now it was just...

No. No, he wouldn't kill himself. He couldn't kill himself. He was gonna live if he got out of here. What would he do? Wait for Sarah and Derek. Grieve. Get that out of the way and relocate. Start _all over_ and continue the vicious cycle until the world was destroyed in the nuclear flames. And then... accept his destiny.

How odd that the utter destruction of everyone he'd grown to depend on in the last few hours was the thing that spurred him on into accepting what _they'd _been trying to save in the first place. Had they succeeded, then? Jesus... Concentrate.

He was desperately trying to get through his options here, most of which were directly proportional to where he was in the library.

He could try going out through a window, and that probably wouldn't end up so good. Or he could keep running until he found another door. And then what? Run outside, get a head start and then get patiently mowed down by this bitch?

She could always miss. Maybe today wasn't his day to go, after all.

Another loud shot from a few yards away and the bullet smashed down into the carpet between John's legs. It seemed to be probing, almost experimental. _Who cares what day it is, you asshole? Do you really want to find out?_

He could try fighting back. There was plenty of discarded weaponry around here, but that would be dependent almost completely on how lucky he was, and he just _wasn't _feeling all that lucky right now. If he tried anything smart, he'd _deserve_ the bullet.

He could try finding Cameron and reactivating her. This place was so fucking huge, though, so it'd be like trying to find a needle in a goddamned book-riddled haystack.

Those were his options, and all of them were totally suicidal. He couldn't just lay down and die, though. In fact, he fucking _refused_ to think about that. He felt tired; sure. He _felt_ like dying; sure. Hecould barely think without a nihilistic thought jumping into his mind; sure. But he wasn't gonna fucking die.

Mike said _he_ was John. He literally asked for the bullet just so John could have a chance to live. What a goddamned piece of worthless trash _he'd fucking be if he just WASTED all that. _And...

Oh god, he was really dead, wasn't he? The kid was dead, the kid who'd fought him in the cafeteria, the kid he fought _with_ in the police station, on the streets of L.A., tried to _save_ as he bled out on his table... the kid who loved him, who kissed him, and whom John consistently rejected was dead. Shot in the chest, sure. How could you survive that? You couldn't. Kid was dead, and John... Oh, god...

Just wait, _wait, wait WAIT. _Stop-

He was _fucking_ dead, and it was this bitch's fault.

John waited at the corner of a bookshelf, turned slightly to watch the aisle, and hopped across to the next shelf. He could hear the woman's footsteps, loud and obnoxious. She wanted him to know that she was coming.

She was really fucking crazy, and that sort of craziness was a frightening thing to behold. Your sense of judgment erodes when you just _stop caring_. You find yourself capable of doing things you hadn't thought possible befores. It expands a lot of your killing options. He wanted to be _gone_ and away from this bitch as soon as possible, but she wasn't gonna go down without a goddamned dog fight.

And that was his only option, really. To fight. To kill. He'd avoided it for now, but now... there was no point in holding the moral high ground. She killed Mike. Maybe Cameron, too. And he wasn't gonna get out of here safely unless she was otherwise unable to pursue him.

So he had to find a gun. He had to fight. He wanted her to pay. John swung around the shelf he was hiding behind and started to sprint down the path he'd taken, flying past the enfilade of gunfire until he could collapse down against the next available cover.

This was what running afforded him. The chance to see people die, to get killed himself. He'd been wrong, so so wrong, and he couldn't stop thinking that maybe he'd only ensured his inevitable fate by running in the first place.

--

Cameron had to hand it to her cheap copy; she was certainly prudent. Or perhaps just lucky. Either way, Cameron had found herself immobilized _again _and now unable to speak, just because Forsythe just happened to find the right-sized pistol magazine for her mouth. And it was lodged in there frustratingly well.

As she laid there chomping down slowly and methodically into the metal, gradually whittling it away with her weak human teeth but incredibly powerful coltan jaws, she wondered if she wasn't wasting her time.

It could all be over now. John could be dead. Cameron extrapolated that Michael was dead, because she heard a gunshot and then an angry outburst by John. Forsythe was likely in pursuit, given the random spates of gunfire that followed the first exchange.

Maybe it wasn't over yet, but either way John's chances were incredibly slim, if they had not depleted already. While he ran, here was Cameron. Stuck.

It felt humiliating in a way that was utterly alien to humankind. She suspected that most units probably experienced a sensation such as this when termination was eminent.

It felt...

Some people said that they had no purpose in life. This was true for most humans; their implicit purpose on the whole was to breed and propagate their blood lines. On a higher level, it was to attain happiness in life, which opened into a myriad of options; obtaining of wealth, fame, power, and love were perhaps the basest of those options. When they experienced problems in reaching those goals, or when they _did_ and did not experience the payoff they'd been expecting, they grew apathetic and started to think that they lacked purpose and were simply... floating around.

Cameron understood this, and did not blame them for it. Humans were remarkably simple creatures with simple purposes, but because of their intellect they felt that this wasn't enough. As a machine, Cameron lacked such ideals. She was an assembly manufactured product built for combat. Easily programmable. When she received a goal, she did not stop. Ever. Until it was finished.

And when she experienced failure...

It wasn't as simple as moving on to the next assignment. For all their machinations, machines with higher artificial intelligence still experienced a modicum of quirks and "feelings." The capacity, especially if they were in learning mode, to become attached to their assignments was very high. It grew into a passion, a way of existing. Their only reason for existence was to fulfill their assignments. Or they would be destroyed. No further compromise was allowable.

To fail and then not be destroyed was therefore unbearable.

She would be... useless. This was the mother lode of assignments; protect John Connor. If he dies, there will be no mission that is as important in following.

What would happen? Well, for now she refused to entertain that notion until it was very evident that he was gone. Until she had him in her arms and she was positive his heart would beat no longer. Until she was certain that she had no more reason for existing.

For now, she would try her best. She kept chewing. She'd need new teeth after this, Cameron thought grimly, because she suspected this set wouldn't last much longer.

--

They meet two hours later, a little ways from the house. It's a playground with a tire swing and a roundabout carousel. There's a slide too, but it's far too rusted to play on. The mothers fret during the day, because every once in a while some kid gets it in his mind to slide down it, just to prove how much of a badass he is to everyone else. Even at this age, even without what Mike's gone through there are still stupid rite of passage rituals.

None of the kids have gotten cut while sliding on it. There's always tomorrow, though.

There's also a swing set, and Michael is sitting on it and dragging himself back and forth when Cheri arrives. He watches her cross onto the wood-chip floor of the playground and make her way across to him, her feet making soft crunching noises as she goes. She's wearing black, which makes her slightly difficult to pick out amongst the darkness of night. Not too hard, though. Not very hard at all.

She walks towards him. She's taking her time. He can see that. _Damn._

This is such bullshit. It feels like a scene out of a drama show. A damned caricature for it, in fact. Why can't they just talk? Why must it be a ritual? Why go through this?

And who does he have to blame for this? Himself, mostly. It's hard not to feel mad at Philip, though.

"Hey," he says when he feels that she's close enough to hear him.

Cheri doesn't respond, though. She walks over and she sits herself on the swing next to him. She leans back slightly, letting the swing carry on back... and then forward. She goes slowly, and she doesn't look at him, although Mike stares at her the entire time.

They're both silent for a few minutes.

Gradually Cheri pushes her swing on over to Michael's, and they watch each other now. She goes in closer until the swings are touching and their faces are only a foot or two apart. He can feel her breath on his face; see it, too. It's cold enough out here to turn her breath into a fine mist, and it heats his face. She's been chewing gum. A lot of gum.

"So, uh," he begins, and she leans in and kisses him hard enough to make him think, at first, that she's trying to bite him, or some weird shit like that. It's literally his first thought. He feels her teeth before he feels her lips, and... she's forceful. He can feel waves in her, pulsing on into him. She grips his forearms with her hands as she tries to pull him in closer, wanting him to enjoy this as much as she is. He turns his head slightly against hers and kisses her back, and he wonders why he does that.

Maybe it's to appease her. But it's weird, because he's always seen her as a sister.

And she's always seen _him_ as a lover, although everything that happened today seems to point against that.

In a way, they've both admitted to something fundamental today. Something that the other knew, but refused to acknowledge.

He still feels like the bad guy, because what he did was far worse than this.

They part after about a minute, and she's smiling. It's not happy. It's nervous and hoping, it's probing and questioning.

"He was lying," Cheri whispers.

Mike says nothing and just stares at her. Oh god, what should he say?

She stares and stares back. "Please tell me he was lying. I don't know why he would, but he was, right? He was lying to me. Why?"

"We... shouldn't be doing this," Mike says slowly.

"No!" She grips his arm again and kisses him again, and this time he's stiff as a board. She withdraws and says, "No, it's fine. We're alright, Mike. We are, I'm serious. We-we're not even related. I've looked it up, it's alright. You're not even legally my brother, it's fine. It's fine. I checked. It's alright, Michael. M-Mike, I love you."

"I do too," Mike says, and his tone does not match hers.

Her mouth falls open. She is breathless, and does not know what to say. "Mike... ha-how do you mean that?"

"I love you," Mike says. He can't make himself say _but only as family_, or anything like that, because it would hurt way too fucking much. He hopes his tone is enough. He means every word, though. Every word. She means the world to him, because he has nothing left in his life but her and Philip. And their house. And their well-being. Nothing else. He loves her but he does not _love_ her.

"Mike... I don't understand."

Mike takes her hand. "I swear, Cheri. I love you, and I love Philip, I love _us. _I'd do anything for you guys, I swear to God. Everything I've done, I've done for you for _two_ years, Cheri. You're both..." He trails out, gesturing listlessly. "You know what I mean?"

She shakes her head. "_No,_ Mike... I... I don't. I want to be _in love with you. _I don't want you to just protect us and keep us safe, I wanna... Oh my God, Mikey, was he right?"

Mike looks away for the first time and he doesn't answer.

"Mike... I've... There's this kid at school and..."

He looks back at her pointedly, and he hopes to change the subject.

She sighs. "He likes me, Mike. He's smart, like you, he's funny, like you, and he's... great. Like you."

"Good substitute?" Mike says dryly.

"No! I don't want him, I want _you,_ I'm just saying... I want _you_ to feel the same way."

"There's nothing better than this," Mike says sharply. "Okay? Nothing. You don't need me to..." He hisses and looks at her. "You've got all you need. You can't get into a relationship, because it's just gonna burn and die in a few years. I've made that clear to you and Philip."

She's glaring now. The transformation from longing to hatred is so quick that he barely perceives it. It frightens him. "Are you for real? That's why I want _you,_ Mike, but if I can't then... then fair's fair, right?"

"I..."

"_Fair's fair! He told me you were... I can't even think about it!" _She jumps off the swing and rounds on him, and he just stares meekly at her. "You don't want this? Fine. I see. I see, Mike. We're brother and sister. Great. _Wonderful." _She steps toward him and grabs his shirt collar, and the black ring on his ear suddenly jabs painfully against his neck for some reason. "But if you have the _gall_, Michael, _to tell me not to try and see someone when you're _fucking_ some other GUY, then you can just go to hell, alright?"_

She releases him. He says absolutely nothing, and she backs up. She's crying.

He feels like a piece of trash, because she's right.

"You can go to hell," she repeats softly, and she turns around and stalks off into the night.

He continues to swing, going as slow as ever. He doesn't attempt to think about the consequences of this, because it's just too much right now. All too much. He's been losing sight of what matters, and he knows it's starting to show.

He loves them, but he thinks he's just gonna be trouble if he stays. And he _wants_ to stay for now.

And that's why it all hurts so much, because this is his fault.

--

Mike opened his eyes again, wondering how much time had passed. His eyes flicked left to right. Bad ceiling. Wet ceiling. Strobes of light... uh. Fixtures. Still in the library, then.

What about hearing, could he still hear?

Off in the distance there was some steady rattling of gunfire, and yes, he could still hear. Alright. That sucking sound in his chest was still present, but it seemed less severe than it had been.

He slowly lifted his head up and stared down at himself. A bloody mess greeted him. That was all he could associate with the sight; a mess. His white hospital garb was dyed red, and it was a mess.

Oookay.

Wow, it hurt too. A lot. Really a lot, actually.

Could he move?

He pulled himself up, gradually moving into a sitting position as he blinked rapidly the while. He flexed his fingers, moved his arm slightly. Alright. That was good, he supposed. He took a slight breath and he felt pain lance up across his body, causing him to jerk. Oookay. Do that in moderation, Mike.

Blood splattered down onto the floor, and he just stared at that. He felt... not normal, but not impaired. His vision was fine. Hearing? Okay. He felt... _empty_ more than anything else. Very empty. It was a physical sensation more than anything else, and that was what troubled him.

More gunfire. John. That woman. They were... still at it. He was probably still alive. Mike had to...

Do something.

"Somebody!" a woman's voice called. He recognized it easily enough. It belonged to Cameron. Or at least sounded like her. It was a bit lower and more measured than everything that other woman had said up till now, and he was willing to believe it belonged to the real deal because he had nothing else left to hope for.

He opened his mouth slightly to respond and blood seeped down his lips. Just a bit, though. "Hey, it's Mike," he said.

There was a pause.

"Follow my voice, Mike. Hurry."

She was close.

He slowly stood up, and he gave a look to his surroundings. There was a whole mess of blood on the floor. A lot, a lot, a lot. Way too much. That came from him, didn't it? Weird.

There was a pistol on the floor, and Mike grabbed it without thinking. He turned slowly and said he was ready. Cameron called to him. Gunfire roared somewhere nearby, and Mike knew he had to hurry. His plodding steps turned a tad more hurried. He shambled along, and he occasionally had to stop to catch his breath. Blood sank down from his torso and hit the floor in messy spatters as he went along.

He'd been shot, hadn't he?

And, oh god, he was still alive.

--

John was hearing voices.

They were low, hushed... although maybe that was just the way _he_ was hearing them. They had tenor, distance. Weight. There was nothing_ physically_ weird about it. Just voices that he was hearing.

But who could be making them? Nobody. There were two that he could hear. A woman and a man. Talking. Distantly. There was no one else here that could speak any longer besides the woman chasing him and... himself. That was just it.

God, was he going crazy now?

He waited behind a pair of desks. A little further ahead and he'd find the guy that Michael killed earlier. That dude would still have a gun nearby. That'd afford him a chance to fight back. The urge to just sprint the rest of the way towards salvation was fucking unbearable. His legs were like... like organisms all of their own. They just wanted to run, and his mind wouldn't let them. They burned in indignation.

He could hear her. Walking. Pounding. She was _near._ He could fucking smell her, and she smelled...

Good. It was odd to think about that, but she'd put on perfume or something before coming here.

"Do you think I'm an idiot!" she yelled. He stared ahead into the brown oak of the desk he was hiding behind. Sweat pooled along his forehead and slid silently down onto his eyes, making him blink. She was around. Oh Christ. She was around _here. _In the same place. He couldn't move now. No. No.

Wouldn't say a word.

"That was so fucking stupid, John! You're such an _idiot! _I know you're in here! You're an even bigger moron than I thought, thinking I wouldn't _know?_ I _knew_ it was you the whole time, John! That kid didn't trick me! He thought he could trick me and now he's DEAD. I bet _you_ told him to say that. Because you're too important, John. You're too important to show that you've got a pair. You're too important and you make your soldiers die for you. You're such a prick, John Connor. I mean... just imagine it! It's so ridiculous, so _stupid! _Do you HONESTLY think you can defeat a whole _fucking_ race of machines?! Do you have a fucking brain to think with?! Moore's Law states that the amount of chip power DOUBLES every two years. Skynet goes online in FOUR, and it continues to grow for TWENTY years. How the hell do you fight something that's SO smart, John?! You can't! It'll evolve smarter, better, and FASTER than you could EVER hope to keep up with! It's IMPOSSIBLE TO BEAT IT, JOHN! If you think you've honestly got a chance then you should fucking stand up so I can shoot you right now!"

John leaned his head slightly against the desk, trying to stop himself from shivering. It had gotten seriously cold in here. Could hear her footsteps. She was right around here... walking... That gun, he could hear it. How far?

Oh man, he could hear those voices again.

_-ver here... _

It sounded so fucking familiar already...

But why? Who had a point to make? What ghosts pursued him besides his friends? Was it guilt?

"I swear, John..."

The rifle made a loud noise and opened up. Gas-driven mechanics drove bullets out through the muzzle of the AK, creating a loud sonic-boom of sound as they were sprayed forth. The bullets roared through the air and collided violently into plaster and wood. That's what happens when you shoot something. It's fucking loud.

John clapped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from screaming; it was so fucking loud from here, it was like the end of the goddamned world, louder than that. Louder than when Mike got shot. He stayed perfectly still for a few seconds, wondering if he'd been shot. Somehow. He felt alright, though. Good, in fact. Healthy, sure.

She was trying to scare him. Corral him. Goad him. And then kill him. The malignancy there, the intent... it was worse, somehow, than being pursued by an intractable killing machine.

Things were incredibly simple now. It was run, kill, or be killed. Pick either three of those, John. Pretend Mike wasn't killed, pretend Cameron isn't disabled and can't help you. Pretend they don't exist, actually. It's you and her.

"I swear, John, I just don't understand it. I really don't. I'm not even sure if daddy was right, if Samuel was right, if-if-... if anything I've been told was right, John. I honestly can't believe that _YOU_ would be the savior of our goddamned human race. I really can't. It's not even you, though. It's nobody. Nobody could do it. You. Are. Doomed. John? You're doomed. What makes you so goddamned special, huh? WHAT DOES IT?! You're listening to the... RAVINGS of your _insane bitch of a mother. _You're no leader, I'm no leader, nobody on this Earth can do what you've been told to do.

You've lived... a miserable, unhappy existence, John Connor. Let me end it for you. It's time for you to face reality, John. It's a hard fucking lesson, but _I'm_ a realistic person, John. Unlike you."

She walked on and on... passing by...

He tensed up against the desk. There. A flash. _oh my god-_

She walked by the desk and stood there, staring around. In only a few seconds she'd turn and she'd see him.

God, she looked just like Cameron. Not... completely like her, but it was close enough. Like an identical twin. Some... minor differences...

She had blue eyes. Real blue eyes. He knew this because they were staring right at him.

Dead. He was going to die. The choice was made.

"I'm your teacher for today," she whispered, jabbing the gun against his chest.

John narrowed his eyes and grabbed the muzzle of the rifle. He gripped it hard; he could feel the bullet waiting patiently in the barrel to fly out and strike him. They stared. She was... right there in front of him, just holding it like so. And she wasn't doing it yet.

The woman cocked her head to the side. Her fingers was right on the trigger. All she had to do was squeeze.

They waited for perhaps a second or two and John pushed hard on the barrel, slamming it against the desk. She didn't just squeeze the trigger; she waled on it. The rifle muzzle exploded with flames, sending splinters and pieces of wood flying into John's face as the recoil carried the rifle up and towards the ceiling.

John let go of the barrel and slammed his fist into the woman's stomach. She screamed and keeled backwards. The rifle fell silent and tumbled downward. John made a grab for it.

"Sorry," he whispered, catching the AK-74 by the stock and turning it around in his hands. "But I've never been a good student."

_Fire, fire, FIRE!_

She backed up quickly, hands reaching down to her belt for the Glock she had holstered. Plenty of time. John brought the iron sight up to his eyes and eased the stock against the inside of his shoulder. He spaced out his feet. There she was. The gun was on full-auto. He was gonna turn her into swiss cheese.

"_WAIT!"_ she said, fighting to force the word out through her suddenly haggard gasps for air.

First time. Pop your cherry, John. Kill.

_over here. _

_i'm coming for you._

Voices voice voices, WHOA.

He squeezed the trigger gently.

_CLICK. CLICK. CLICK._

OH FUCKING CHRIST, NO.

The woman's eyes lit up, for all the world as if Santa had come smashing through the nearby windows, resplendent in his jolly red suit. John groaned --he couldn't do anything else-- and tossed the AK-74 as far as he could, like a football away from them. The woman had a firm grip on the Glock now, she was drawing it out. Out of ammo. How could it have been out of ammo? Jesus fucking Christ.

John turned and sprinted as far as he could down the path he'd been taking, heading for his plan b.

He had to stop and weave to the side as he heard the 9mm rounds bursting toward him.

They wanted him dead. Oh god. _They_ did that, didn't they? When he got that MP5, the MP5 that the cultist has been using, the one that Michael killed, WHEN HE GOT THERE... he'd find that the MP5 was broken, or some shit. It'd be unusable. Just like every gun in here, EXCEPT the one that was being used by that bitch.

They wanted him dead. Why? Why were they doing this?

It didn't really matter. He screwed up. Those dreams... They weren't forgiving him. He was gonna die.

--

Mike arrived after approximately two minutes of following Cameron's voice directions. She nodded silently as she watched him turn the corner-

Oh.

His entire torso was red. With blood. His blood. There was barely any white left on his immaculate hospital garb. Cameron mapped the area within seconds and found the wound to be slightly below the right breast, near-around where his lungs would be. Her auditory sensors were also picking up on a slight whistling sucking sound emanating from him. Pneumothorax. A sucking chest wound. Very fatal if not treated immediately. He was literally losing oxygen as he walked.

Cameron blinked as he continued on over, appearing unmindful of the severity of...

She just watched him. This boy had done a lot for them over the past few days. Not all of it was right, not all of it was pleasant, but he'd acted... competently throughout.

And now he was dying.

"Hey," he said. There was a slight wheeze in his voice.

Cameron smiled up at him. It was somewhat craggly and toothless; she'd lost a good part of her tooth set in biting the magazine clip in half. It was lying in two separate pieces next to her head. "Hi Michael," she said. "There's a device on my back. Again."

Mike nodded. "Noticed. Turn around? Oh wait, heh. Never mind."

Cameron smiled again. "Turn me."

He stooped down and flipped her over. Cameron was silent as blood trickled down onto her back as he hunched over her.

"It's pretty bad, isn't it?" Mike whispered.

Cameron said nothing. Gunfire sounded off, loud nine millimeter rounds.

"I don't see it," Mike said.

"It's on my spine," Cameron said. "Roughly the middle."

"I-I don't see it."

"Then it's buried. Dig it out."

Silence.

"Wuh-with what? I don't have anything. Oh... whew... I feel dizzy, hold on."

"Use your fingers."

"Hold on..."

_"Mike._"

"Oh... okay..."

**Penetration of skin detected; weak. Dismiss. **

She let the prompt hang in her HUD for a few seconds, and it faded out. She waited patiently. She felt a pricking sensation on her spine. "There. Good. Keep going."

She felt herself losing fluids. Blood flowed out from the wound Mike was creating.

"I... can't see..." Mike said.

"Yes you can."

"Yeah..."

Cameron turned her head slightly to him. "Mike, you're doing fine. Keep going. You're doing well."

Silence.

"It's all going to be okay, Mike."

"I know."

He grasped the foreign device in his hands; it was long and cylindrical, with a tiny button on top like a tack. There was a slight bit of resistance, but it pulled out neatly enough.

Cameron's neural net lit up for the second time in the day. All systems were in working order. She flexed her hands and feet, and quickly pulled herself upwards, turning around to Mike.

"Alright, good, let's-"

She stopped, because Mike closed his eyes and fell unconscious.

--

It's a place called Redman's Star.

For a few hours Mike's been standing on the curb right next to it, frowning as cars keep coming on down the road past him. Redman's Star is a tiny little bar, built into the superstructure of a much taller skyscraper. It's probably rented. He can smell the booze and hear the rough-housing inside even from where he's standing.

He's waiting because he doesn't like the fact that there are cars around. They've been going to and fro for literally hours, and he has stayed here for just as long.

He's remarkably patient when he wants to be.

At around midnight, a time when he's expected to be back home, the busy L.A. street empties itself of vehicles and the prying eyes of their occupants. Mike is alone. He walks inside of the bar, displaying his ID to the bartender. It's forged, but that may as well not matter because the bartender doesn't seem to care much.

There's a red glow to Redman's Star. Ambient lighting. There are bar stools and a bunch of booths. The smell of alcohol is overpowering. The smell of other things is slightly less so. It's an effective mask, Mike decides, as he takes up residence on a stool.

He looks around slightly and finds that he's being stared at by some of the other barflies. They're all men; everyone in here.

He's not sure if the rumors are true. If they are, then maybe...

He's not felt it in so long. Maybe ever. He just wants a moment to himself, of not shadowing his family, of not worrying about the future. Of not caring.

The bartender ignores him. He walks past Michael three times, and Mike doesn't attempt to order a drink. They seem to have an understanding, and eventually some guy with wavy red hair and green eyes taps Michael on the shoulder. Mike almost mistakes him for a lady, his features are so... well, feminine.

Is that a turn-on? He's not exactly sure.

Red head takes a seat next to Michael and they chat for a while. Red head is twenty two. Mike lies and calls himself twenty; just below the proper age to be in here, not that anyone cares. Somehow he suspects that Red head realizes he's lying, because everyone else is staring at Mike in some form or another. They know. And besides this guy, they don't approve of it. They're frowning.

After a while, Red head gets about two drinks in him. He offers one to Mike and Mike declines. Red head drinks both. A blond man in a red blazer walks in after a while and everyone stares at him warily; they forget about Michael.

Soon Mike and Red head are talking animatedly; turns out they share a lot of the "same" interests. Mike's been lying off his ass and winging it. The subjects of conversation are remarkably indecent, and they seem to be steering them in a certain direction. Mike just goes along with it in all of his cautious naivety.

After a while Red head is showing Mike a spot on his chest. He wants Mike to touch it. Mike touches it. He wants Mike to go outside with him now. And he goes outside.

They head into an alley next to the bar and they shoo away a homeless dude. The homeless guy is remarkably old, and he stares at Michael like he knows him.

Maybe he's seen the type before.

Red head has his fun with Mike, and Mike enjoys it for what it's worth. He feels like he needs this. He's spent such a long time doing _exactly_ what Philip wants, because that's what he owes to Philip. He just wants... to do what _he_ wants.

It feels trashy, and that's kind of a turn on to him. They can be discovered, and that's a turn on, too.

It's a turn on until they _are_ discovered.

Philip's been asking around. He knows Mike tools around this part of town usually. Gathering intel. Well, yeah, that's right. There's a lot of technology firms around here. ZeiraCorp, Morris Enterprises, NexStep...

But he's not here for any of that, and Philip realizes this as he rounds the bend of the alley.

There's a scuffle. Mike stands back and gawks as Philip bashes Red head's head against the wall and leaves him bleeding naked in the alley.

Philip rounds on him after a few seconds of breathing heavily and looking really goddamned pissed. Red head's head is really red now.

They are silent. Mike finds his shirt and puts it back on. He takes a few tentative steps towards Philip, and Philip can't seem to really focus on his son.

"Of all the things, why were you doing _this_?" Philip asks, staring at Red head.

"I..."

"Dunno," Philip finishes. "Yeah, figured. You don't really know anything, do you, Mike? You're like some wild thing, aren't you?"

"Phil-"

"I'm your _father, _goddamnit, and you can't even call me that?! I've done my best to make you happy and you... Jesus God, Mike, I _can't believe this!_ Don't bother coming home tonight."

"Don't fucking judge me," Mike says.

Philip laughs in his face and walks away, holding his head in his hands. Philip is a paralegal. He talks. He takes notes. He's composed. If he were any less than this it'd be a tirade of insults and belittling. Of violence, just like on ol' Red head. His... politics aside, Philip is remarkably exacting in his judgment. He doesn't let Cheri do shit, and that applies loosely as well to Michael. This could have been much worse.

Mike blinks and walks slowly out of the alley.

No. This _is_ worse, because Philip is going to tell Cheri now, and then they'll decide on what to do with him. Once and for all.

For now he'll go to the playground. If they want to find him, they'll know he's there, at least.

--

Mike opened his eyes. Again. He found Cameron staring back at him.

"Can you move?" Cameron asked.

Mike nodded slightly. He extended his hand and let Cameron haul him up. There seemed to be... He looked down and smiled gently. She'd fashioned a tourniquet out of his shirt and he found it wrapped over the gunshot wound. It wasn't a great fix, but it'd keep him from asphyxiating for now.

Oh man, didn't that just mean he knew...

Well. Yeah. He knew. He knew he was...

Gah, he couldn't think about it. Jesus.

Cameron stooped down and grabbed the nearby M4A1 carbine. She gave a look to Michael and he expected to see the same businesslike expression on her face. He was just an asset to her. If he should ever become a threat she'd deal with him instantly and in the most lethal way available.

She only looked pained, though. Like she sympathized. It was a penetrative look, as if she was trying to figure something out about him.

He was wrong before. She _was_ different. Even when she tried she couldn't march to the same tune as her counterparts. That felt nice.

"Let's go find John," Cameron said after a moment or two.

Mike blinked rapidly and nodded. He was starting to feel tired. Drained. Boy...

On they went. And oh, god. He was still alive.

--

It took John a few minutes to find the body. He found it slumped like a derelict between two bookshelves, soaked in blood that pumped slowly out from its shattered head.

It was Mike's handiwork.

John took a stumbling step over, keeping his eyes peeled against the forest of shelves that surrounded him. He observed zero movement but heard a lot of noise. She was still moving.

_Well, of course she's still fucking moving. Why would she stop? _

He stared down at the corpse. His head was split in two. Two halves. You could see the blood flowing out from the center of it. Bits of the guys head had fallen off. John looked a bit further down. There was an MP5, sort of like the one he'd been holding.

Exactly what he'd been expecting. And it would do.

_-let's go find-_

Ohhhhh chill.

What the _fuck_ was that all about, anyway? He couldn't even wrap his head around it. He felt like he was going insane at times, but... he felt _fine._ He didn't feel all...

Weird. Yet. But no, that wasn't fully right, was it? He felt wrong, somehow. Like he'd done wrong and wrong was being done to him. He realized that people were dead. And they died because of him. While... while all this time he'd been entertaining the notion of running away.

_He_ felt sick. He felt like slime, even. Bryant, his bitch, Allison, Sammy, the grunts, Michael, Cameron...

They were all gone because of him. His intervention, his failings. All him. They were settling accounts with him now.

Footsteps off to the rear. She no longer had the killing power of the AK-74, but that pistol would do him just as dead as anything else.

Maybe he should just stand here.

Let her kill him? Pay back all debts? Keel over, spread his legs?

Fuck no. He grabbed the MP5 in his hands and immediately checked the magazine chamber. Looked okay... He pushed on it. There couldn't much ammo left inside the mag, and he had plenty of replacements in his pockets...

What... ?

It refused to budge. The mag stayed right where it was. Jammed? Oh, Christ. What the hell?

"No, no, no," John breathed, pulling hard on the magazine now. It was broken. Sticking to the fucking walls _it was fucking JAMMED. _"_C'mon, come ON!"_

He brought the thing over his knee and slammed the magazine down. It didn't even move an inch, it was like trying to unscrew a goddamned bottle cap that wouldn't come off, it was _stuck. "No, c'mon..."_

Oh, christ, would the thing even fire?

Okay. No. You can't take that risk. Just fire it once.

What if there's only one bullet left in the chamber? Don't think about that. TEST IT.

a sting, it was a fucking sting, they were _laying_ for him, making him panic, it was a fucking sting they wanted to kill him-

His hands darted up to his forehead, which was beginning to feel like it'd explode in short order. His eyes shut tightly and he saw a bunch of interesting and surreal colors float by. He was going nuts. They were all dead, _he was alive,_ and he couldn't stand that.

There was a ladder a few inches away from him, and it made a reverberating _clang!_ as a bullet struck the metal.

John aimed the MP5 against the sea of bookshelves and squeezed the trigger.

_Clickclickclickclickclick._ Jammed. Jesus Christ, it was broken.

"_What the hell are you doing, John?! Are you trying to shoot me again?!"_

Oooohhh, and she LAUGHED.

Run. Run. Run. The MP5 fell away from his hands and he slowly walked down the aisle, barely jerking as a bullet slammed into a book nearby. He heard a moan of frustration out of the woman and then running footsteps.

He stared at the window up ahead of him and ran for it. All winding down. This was it. Jump or die. You failed, John.

You failed. Couldn't even blow this bitch away. Just go now. Run along back to your home and to mommy.

_over there... run-_

--

It was like hunting a bird. He kept... _weaving and flying around,_ not affording her the killing shot. The challenge was gone. The evil, stupid evil fun was gone. All Cameron Forsythe wanted to do was end this and move on. The combat high was already beginning to drain out of her for some ineffable reason and now... the doubt was just settling in.

How much longer would she sustain herself off this laughing, goading hysteria? Would the moment of synapse arrive when John was dead?

Would she realize then that-

Ah, ah, _ah. _Stop that, Cameron.

You're beginning to sound like Hicks, and you haven't even started yet.

The kid was running for the nearby windows. Great. She picked up the pace, losing the methodical-walking-murderer act that she'd grown so fond of in the past ten minutes. It was time to end this, and_ then_ she's suss out what she'd do next, by god.

--

This doesn't feel like a very big thing, John thought.

On any old day you'd find one John Connor jumping forth from a two story building window to avoid any _one_ of the agents of the apocalypse who wished his demise. It should have felt like business as usual.

It wasn't. It didn't. He felt like this was the time that he would die.

He'd run for the window. He'd run and run and run, and then at the last second... he wouldn't even hear the bullet. He'd feel it, though. Oh yes. He'd feel it and then... nothingness.

He felt like this had been planned. Those fucking voices.

Right there. Up ahead. It's here now. It's here. The window was shuttered and closed, and he couldn't see outside of it. He'd have to get those blinds back up. That'd cost him time. Maybe that would grant "Cameron" enough time to lay down the killing shot. Maybe he'd get lucky. John was just gonna live through this until it ended. Until he ended or he ran. His friends had offered him that much. Or they had helped to condemn him to ultimate defeat. It no longer mattered. He wouldn't hesitate. He'd do what he thought was right.

He grabbed the blind strings and gave it a slight...

He stared at the window.

Oh. That was it.

It was the fucking... THE BLINDS, OH FUCKING HOLY SHIT! IT WAS THE DREAM FROM OVER A GODDAMNED WEEK AGO! HE WAS _FUCKING RELIVING IT._

_--_

Mike was falling behind. Cameron had nursemaided him as much as she could, but eventually the tension became far too great to help him along at John's potential expense. She told him to follow her and then she charged off ahead, following the cues of rapid-fire footsteps and gunshots.

She ran past an aisle, coming over to the windowed section. To her immediate right was a brown mop of hair running past a few desks, making a beeline towards the windows.

"OVER THERE! RUN!"

Behind John, a few shelves down was Cameron Forsythe, a pistol held sternly near her face. Her strides were wide and almost demonically determined.

Cameron brought the M4A1 to bare, but Forsythe disappeared behind cover a second before Cameron could peer down the iron sight.

Cameron dropped the M4A1 to her hips and started to run for the windows. She'd waylay John.

Behind her, Michael was running after Forsythe.

--

John stared at the blinds.

This was it. It was so funny.

By running in the first place he arrived at the place he'd wanted to avoid. Death. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy if he'd ever fucking seen one. How poetic. How ironic. How _downright literary in fucking general. _

Kyle. Sarah. The T-800. And that man. The four figures.

Who was that man?

It was simple. It was him. John Connor, the general. He didn't need a dream to tell him that, he didn't need to see that man in some wavy dreamland. It was him, after all. They all told him _no. Don't run. Don't doubt. You will fail if you do this. _

And what did John tell himself? Run. Think of yourself. Be a normal boy.

Where was his last dream? Well. It was this. This whole experience right here. This was it. He ignored the signs and now the self-fulfilling prophecy has goddamned well fulfilled itself. His selfishness got scores of people killed, and now he would die himself. It felt fitting.

He turned around. He knew there wouldn't be any Judgment Day out there. It was in four years, after all.

When no one would be around to stop it.

The woman stared at him, a pistol filling in the gap of space between them.

"Don't worry," John said, smiling. "This is for the best."

"Cameron" tilted her head slowly. "You took the words right out of my mouth, dear."

John looked down the barrel of the pistol. That was how he knew it was sighted for the killing blow. If he could stare down it, it'd hit his head. Already her finger was tightening. She wasn't going for drama this time.

There was a lesson here.

John lashed his hands out, intending to grab the Glock before she could fire, even though he knew she'd be able to shoot before he could do anything. For some reason he didn't mind that. He liked the idea of himself resisting at least now. At least here.

John blinked as his hands, instead of hitting the Glock, joined and clasped with another pair. The woman screamed suddenly in pain --the Glock roared in the meantime, the bullet flying up into the ceiling as she recoiled-- and John's eyes jerked up in time to watch Michael Oxferod pull his hand back and slammed _both_ of their fists down against the woman's shoulder.

"YOU GODDAMNED SON OF A BITCH!" the woman screamed, clawing at the wound.

"Mike?!"

The resistance fighter smirked goofily and released John's hand. Then he sketched a quick salute and toppled backwards like a felled pin, hitting the floor a moment later. John stood back, nearly unbelieving at this turn of events. What...

The woman stared up at him, slowly raising the gun back. She didn't turn around to see what happened to Mike. She didn't care. Right there, in that moment, she hated John more than anything else in the world, there was such venom in her eyes. "You are so de-"

None of them heard the shot.

Cameron Forsythe's head collapsed into itself as a NATO round flew through it. Bits of hair and bone flew around messily, misting against John's body. Forsythe's eyes rolled up into her head and she let out a startled grunt before dying.

John blinked and looked over as Cameron Phillips ran towards him, holding the M4A1 carbine in her hands.

Saved. The voices he'd been hearing belonged to her and Mike. They were fine.

John started to laugh. Oh christ... nope. Not yet. Holy fucking shit. He'd been... so sure and-

Well, that's the thing about fate, eh? About stupid dreams. There's _nothing_ to it but what you make of it.

--

Cameron watched John warily for a few seconds as he broke down into hysterical laughter. His face seemed to jump and contort in his...

Was it mirth or...?

"Are you... John, what's wrong?"

"Ha-hold on... ahahahaha, _oh Jesus..._"

"What?" You rarely found a machine at a loss for words, but this was damned well one of those times.

_"Oh... _hahaha... oh my god... lemme-let me, uh... let me... sit down... oh... hah..."

And sat he did, flopping down against the radiator behind him. Cameron's glance quickly flicked onto Mike, who was slowly pushing himself up against a bookshelf. He was giving John the same cockeyed stare Cameron suspected _she'd_ been giving the boy.

In the middle of this triangle was Cameron Forsythe's bleeding corpse. To Cameron and Mike she was only another threat, to be forgotten already. Cameron was already in the middle of deleting her file;

**Desired appreciation by all. Received none; result was strong psychological sense of entitlement. Assessment: terminated by unit. Pending removal from archives. **

To John she'd represented... well, something else entirely. Cameron couldn't quite comprehend what he was obviously feeling.

"You alright?" Mike asked, his voice wavering just above a croak.

John blinked and laughed again. "I'm... better than alright." He grinned and looked up at Cameron. "I've... _never_ been so fucking glad to see you two. I love you guys."

Ordinarily Cameron would be simply confused, but this wasn't the case. She felt... satisfied, in a way. Except on the matter of Mike's impending expiration, it all seemed to be finally over.

"Are we good, John?" she asked.

John nodded rapidly at her. "Yeah, yeah, we're good. I-I'm sorry for all of this guys, I'm so sorry. But we're alright. It's okay."

Mike chuckled. "You're onto something there, John," he said, and then he fell unconscious again.

They both looked at him, and then, slowly, at each other.

"Is he...?" John said.

"I don't know," Cameron lied. "Help me with him."

"Yeah."

Together they sprang up all over again, as though nothing had just happened, and ran over to their friend.

Author's Note: I'm foreseeing two more chapters.


	17. The Resistance Fighter

**Away**

Chapter Seventeen: The Resistance Fighter

"-well talk to me! I mean, is he alright, is he gonna-"

"He's hurt badly. We should leave."

"Which car? Hey Mike, you awake?"

"The one Forsythe arrived in."

"Who?"

"The woman I just killed."

"Forsythe... oh you've got... never mind, help me with him?"

"Yes."

He was flying. He felt himself moving, though it was not by his own decision. It just happened. Flying through the air. He was aware of his movement, but not of the... positioning, the logistics... felt no hands.

He opened his eyes and saw nothing of the world.

--

At nine o'clock there's a noise in the house. Cheri screams. Philip curses loudly and orders his daughter to go upstairs, and Mike with her. To protect her.

The noise is the sound of glass shattering in the kitchen, where the door is. There's a vestibule there, and the door to the outside has a glass facade. Easily shattered. Mike has warned Philip about that, maybe about a thousand times.

Cheri runs upstairs. Philip stands there, staring blankly toward the kitchen. Mike lingers in the living room. On the television, three judges issue their verdict on the singing abilities of a young woman. It's not looking good for her.

"Mike!" Philip hisses.

Mike shrugs. "Just stay here. Don't resist."

"What?!"

"It's okay."

He starts to walk up the stairs. Philip is pacing rapidly back and forth now, mouth slackened and his hands creased onto his forehead. He's panicking. He wants to run, but perhaps he realizes that that would make things worse.

Mike isn't exactly a happy camper himself, but at least _he_ has a plan. He finds Cheri hovering on the stairs.

"Where's dad?"

"Downstairs," Mike replies.

"Is he coming up?!"

"I told him to stay."

"_What?!"_

"It's okay."

Cheri blinks and rushes down to her father. Someone downstairs is shouting and it's not Philip.

Robbers. Mike knows about robbers. He wonders if they're just as common place here as they are where he's from. He's only been here... what, a year now? Something like that. First robbery. Maybe not so common. Oh well.

"_Get out!" _Philip.

"Oh, god!" Cheri.

"_Shut the fuck up!_" Unknown. Not friendly.

Mike clicks his head to the side as he enters his room. Just a few moments ago he was watching American Idol, trying to laugh at someone's incredibly canned singing abilities. Failing, but trying. Cheri and Philip didn't seem to have any problems, but he was. They had popcorn. No butter. Mike didn't mind. It was delicious all the same, and after a few minutes they just gave him the whole bowl when it became evident that he'd end up eating most of them anyway.

And he tried to laugh.

How easily a noise changes you back to who you really are. A cue? Like a machine receiving a command he reverted back to his base programming. Protect. Serve. And kill.

He goes over to his dresser and opens the top drawer. His room has a bed. It's supernaturally comfortable, and he's spent some days lying down on it. Full days. Staring at the ceiling. He doesn't even feel tired, the bed just seems to... suck him in. Always takes him a while to abandon it whenever he wakes up nowadays.

There's a poster on his wall, and he still doesn't understand why it's there. It's an old world war two poster, showing a bunch of men and women wielding old looking machine guns. It's black and white. Philip told him, when he was nailing it up on Mike's wall, that the people were Polish resistance fighters. He thought Mike would like it.

Mike asked him where Polish people lived.

In the top drawer there's a Hi-Power Browning automatic pistol. Mike takes it clinically and shoves a nearby magazine into the chamber, clicking the action so the slide is racked into position. He flicks the hammer downward and stares toward the door for a moment.

Silence. He walks out calmly.

"_Where's that other kid?!"_

"He-he's upstairs, we're not gonna do anything! He's not gonna do anything, I swear!"

"Go find him, Alex!"

"Alright!"

Two. Two people. Armed? Fuck.

"L-listen, Roberto, I swear, I was just notating, I had _nothing_ to do with the proceedings, I _swear."_

"You fucked us up, you slimy pin-striped shit!"

"You GOT OFF!"

A smacking sound.

"DON'T BACKTALK, ASSHOLE!"

"Oh-okay, but listen-"

"Alan's already dead. How d'ya like them apples?"

Philip's blubbering. "Oh, Jesus, Roberto, don't do this. _I have children."_

Mike walks through the hallway and walks calmly toward the stairs, going past Cheri's door.

"I-I'll leave Wichita, _I swear! You won't see me ever again!"_

"You'd love that, wouldn't you? Mr. Rodriguez ain't so fuckin' forgiving."

"_I'm a paralegal for godssake!"_

Mike turns the corner and goes onto the stairs. There's a man wearing a balaclava making his way up. He's got a baseball bat in his hands. He's going on the balls of his feet, trying his best to be quiet. It doesn't matter. He's already been seen. If he'd been quicker then he would have had a chance.

Alex stares up at Mike for a second, his eyes widening sharply through the peepholes of the ski-mask. "Hey, man, I found him!"

He doesn't see the gun. Mike raised his arm slightly and aimed down the iron sight at the kid's head.

"_Bueno, _bring him down."

Alex sees the gun, and his entire body freezes.

Mike's tongue falls out slightly as he closes his left eye and squeezes the trigger. He doesn't hear the shot over the sound of the bullet piercing Alex's brainpan, spraying ichor down onto the stairs. The body is tossed away like a piece of paper, falling against an end table. Things get shattered. A nice picture of flowers tips and falls.

"MIKE!"

Mike walks down the stairs and peers over the bannister.

_"Absolutely terrible. I cannot disagree more. Here, look at me; you cannot sing."_

Philip's bleeding from his mouth and nose and Cheri has a red mark on her cheek. There's a big man holding a knife to Philips' throat. Like Alex he's wearing a ski-mask. Mike stops and stares, his grey eyes calmly analyzing.

"Mike..." Philip says, his eyes huge. "Don't move, okay? Ju-just stay there."

The man speaks up. "Listen to him! Don't fucking point that at me!"

Mike turns his head to him. And after a moment, he points the gun at him. The guy's probably in his later twenties, really well-built and intimidating. The leather jacket he wears is stenciled with plenty of angry red lines and shit like that. Regular gangster shit.

He has no illusions about the gun, for all of his arrogance.

"I swear to _GOD MAN I'LL CUT HIS FUCKIN' THROAT-"_

Mike presses the trigger again and the man's head explodes. The knife tumbles down from Philips' neck and clatters onto the ground. Mike's already walking down the stairs as the guy's body hits the floor. Mike looks into the living room for a few seconds. Cheri and Philip haven't moved. They look faintly shocked. But they're okay.

Mike walks out and checks the kitchen for any more targets.

_"They're all gonna know my name soon! They're all gonna be sorry!"_

_"Oooh, honey, it's alright."_

"M-m-m-Mike?" Philip.

"Yeah?" Mike asks.

Silence.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing. Oh my god."

Mike checks the house. There's no one left. There's a car outside, and it's empty. He walks back into the living room. American Idol has gone to commercial. Cheri charges Mike and hugs him tightly almost as soon as he enters. And as she does it, Mike smiles sweetly at her, feeling himself glow. She's gripping him like she's afraid he's gonna fall away and disappear. It's the first time it's felt like that. Her chest shakes and convulses sharply as she sobs.

"Hey... it's okay." Mike says. "What's wrong?"

Cheri doesn't answer.

Philip stares at Michael. He's covered in blood.

Eventually Cheri lets Mike go and Mike holsters the Browning. He clears his throat, for a lump has suddenly formed there and he looks back at Philip as blood continues to spread from the gangster's head.

He points at the television, smiling timidly. "Did she get in?"

--

_"-letting the days go by, let the water hold me down. Letting the days go by, water flowing underground!"_

"Get him in the back!"

John ran around to the front of the blue sedan and tried the door. It clicked, opening smoothly. Oh, christ, thank GOD. He slipped himself into the drivers seat and checked. Keys were in. The car was already running, for chrissake, the radio was on.

He checked the backseat as Cameron gently laid Mike down and sat down next to him. John quickly pulled his eyes away from the sight. Mike was... a fucking mess. It was even worse than the first time he'd gotten shot. There was just... _blood, _all over, and he'd _screamed _then, y'know, when he first got shot. In the spleen? Yeah. This was the fucking chest, and he was _quiet. _

John was doing his damned best to keep from panicking.

_"Into the blue again, after the money's gone! Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground!"_

"We good?"

Cameron nodded. "Yes. Drive."

John stared up at the library for a second.

Fuck you, dreams. Fuck you.

_"And you may ask yourself... how do I work this?! And you may ask yourself... where IS that large automobile?!"_

He pushed the transition up to drive and pulled out of there, peeling down the parking lot and onto the empty street. He floored it.

_"And you may tell yourself... this is NOT my beautiful house!"_

"Do you want me to drive?" Cameron asked.

_"And you may tell yourself... this is NOT by beautiful wife!"_

"Ya-you- you've gotta work on him, Cam. Do something!"

"I am. I'm trying."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. Is he... is he gonna-"

"I don't know." She said that so many times now.

"Yeah, alright. Sorry. We're going to the hospital, alright?"

He looked back at Cameron. She returned the glance with a frown. Her hands were doing something over Mike's chest.

With what fucking supplies? With what equipment?

_"Into the blue again, after the money's gone! Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground!"_

"John..."

"We're GOING to the hospital, Cameron."

She gave a look to Michael and nodded twice; both at Mike and at John. John couldn't keep the ghost of a smile from appearing on his face. The guy on the radio starting to babble the same phrase over and over again. Same as it ever was.

That certainly fit the situation. They weren't gonna play by the regular rules this time, though. They couldn't do shit without proper care, Mike was too badly injured for that. He wasn't just gonna abandon Mike because of the need to maintain goddamned secrecy. He was gonna do what was _right_ this time.

He drove on. Jesus Christ, the kid took a bullet for him. If he died, he died for John Connor. The first soldier to die in his name.

You have to start somewhere, right?

_"You may ask yourself... WHAT is that beautiful house?"_

_Not fucking here. Not now. _He wasn't gonna let that happen now. Not after everything that happened. He was done going the cowardly route.

The road remained mercifully short of vehicles, so he started to push on to ninety miles.

Cameron's response to this came immediately; "Slow down."

"It's fine!"

"No, John. Slow down." There was no room for debating the fact. There'd be consequences if he didn't slow down, and they wouldn't be delivered by Cameron. They'd come by John's own stupidity. He gasped out a shuddering breath and dropped the speed.

_"You may ask yourself... where DOES that highway go to?!"_

"Closest hospital?" He knew the directions to the one nearest to North Hollywood, but he hardly knew where the hell they were now.

Cameron said nothing. He could hear her working. There were... sounds coming from the back, all... squishy, it sent chills up John's spine. And dread. Mike wasn't... he really wasn't too good this time, was he?

"Cameron..." No, no... he wasn't... he wasn't gonna die. They weren't gonna lose anyone today. It just wasn't gonna happen, not after everything they'd gone through.

_"And you may ask yourself... am I right? Am I wrong?"_

"He has a sucking chest wound."

John saw red for a second. A split second.

How-

How-

How did they-

Oh... god. Stop. Watch. See. Look out the windshield, just... keep on the road, you're gonna crash, John...

Fuck it. He looked back to Michael. The kid's hair was a tousled mess, all sweaty and shit, his eyes were closed, his expression... just sort of calm. _It's alright, man. _Blood everywhere on his chest. And that was it- There was... a... sucking...

_"And you may say to yourself, MY GOD, what have I done?!"_

Just keep driving.

"Cam," John said.

"Yes?"

"Don't let him die. Okay?" He turned to watch her. Her hands were a bright, angry red.

But she gave him one of those nods, where she almost fools him into think he's looking at another human being. Her hair would go every which way, and the _look_ on her face was just...

She said, "Okay."

He turned back to the road. He could feel Cameron still watching him. She was being... she was being great.

She knew hopelessness when she saw it. She always saw it.

It was just that... this time she wasn't gonna tell him. That was all. She was going to spare him this time. Whether that was for the best or not didn't matter at this point. Whatever she did or did not tell him didn't matter anymore, because he wasn't gonna give up on the guy.

--

"Where's Cheri?"

Philip turns his head to Michael. The boy is next to him in the front seat of the car. What'd Philip call it? His Camarolla? Corolia?

Corolla. Right.

"What?" Philip asks, scratching his chin. There's a bit of a fuzz there where it didn't exist before. Philip hasn't shaved in hours.

Michael clears his throat a few times, and he can barely bring himself to repeat the question. He feels as if he's made a mistake. Philip is always asking him questions, and they're starting to make Mike feel incredibly... what was the word? Self conscious?

That's two words.

Anyway, Philip doesn't always like the answers. He didn't get... berserk about it, but he kept on staring at Mike like he was the strangest thing he'd ever set eyes upon. He's been doing that a lot.

"Cheri, uh... uh, w-where is she?"

"Oh." Philip says. He looks back over to the road up ahead and makes a turn with the wheel. He scratches his chin again. "_Well,_ Mike, Cheri is at... school. She goes at around seven o'clock. I dropped her off at the school and... and that's where she is now." He looked back at Mike and smiled. His hand was poised slightly at his side, as if he wanted to rub the boy's head.

"Okay." Mike looks outside, and he stares as rain pours down around the windows of the vehicle in small rivulets and drops. He likes the way they distort the image of the buildings out in the distance, make them... well, wavy. It's always shifting. It's interesting.

He wishes Cheri were here. She's... also interesting, she's... different from what he's used to. She's... _delicate. _She speaks softly, intelligently. She puts a lot of thought into her words, and it comes with such ease that Mike feels almost overwhelmed in her presence. But she's nice to him. She's... a bit more accepting than Philip has been... just weird, really. Weirded OUT, Mike amends.

A bunch of houses fly on past. They are dank and grey looking, although that probably has more to do with the weather than anything else, really. Mike finds himself nodding at their appearance. It's familiar.

And yet they're different. They're... _small, _and _delicate, _almost like Cheri but in a structural sense, right? They're stout, made of... wood mostly. And the way their tops are all pointy and shit is kind of funny. He's never seen things quite like that. His full attention is diverted to them. He's mesmerized. When can he see them again after they reach Philip's house? How long before they become common place and no longer a novelty to be enjoyed?

He could look on for... as long as he'd like for now. He has...

God, he has all the time in the world now.

"I'm gonna take a walk later," Mike declares. He looks over at Philip and grins.

Philip coughs. "Uh, not like that you're not. Sorry."

Mike looks down at himself. He's wearing a shirt that's two sizes too big and jeans that never seem to stay on, no matter how much time he spends trying to pull them up. But it's not that bad, right?

"We gotta get you cleaned up, cut your hair..." Philip continues. His hands revolve slightly; turning the wheel, turning the car again. "... Find you some clothes, I guess. _God..._"

Mike frowns. "What?"

"It's nothing. I'm just... trying to figure out what the hell I'm gonna do now."

"What do you mean?"

Philip scratches his chin for the umpteenth time. "Adopting a son wasn't something I expected to do, Michael."

"Me neither."

Philip laughs his ass off.

They reach "home" a few minutes later, pulling into a big driveway. It's a handsome brown house with a neatly trimmed line of hedgerows going across the facade. There are high windows on the second floor, tipped with arches at the top of each one. The first floor is shadowed by the slanting roof, but the glow of kitchen lights is easily visible even in the early-morning gloom.

"Welcome to your new home," Philip says gruffly, pushing his door open.

"Wow," is all Mike can think of saying.

--

Mike's room is empty except for an old bed and some exercise equipment in the back. Philip explains that they're gonna get some furniture for him soon, and Mike almost tells him not to bother; he loves it. It's so _big. _The space is...

It's _so big. _If he... like... lays down on the floor and spreads his legs and arms out as far as he can, _they wouldn't touch anything! _No walls, no bunk beds, no other people... nothing! It's so big.

Philip goes over and sits on the bed while Mike walks out into the middle of the room, just staring around in awe.

"You like it?"

"I like it!"

Philip chuckles, and Mike feels like a kid again. He turns back to Philip and takes a seat next to... his father?

Well...

"We'll have this place filled in no time. I'll even get a poster for you on that wall."

"Okay!"

Oh, Jesus... he just sinks into the bed. It's like it's trying to capture him, or something. Mike sighs and flops back down onto it, spreading his hands out.

He can hardly believe any of this. It feels like a fairy tale. Tomorrow he'll wake up and he'll hear the din of machine gun fire in the distance, the shrieking sonic-boom roar as an HK-aerial flies overhead, the...

He opens his eyes after a while and finds Philip staring at him.

"You were telling the truth, weren't you?"

Mike nods quickly.

"Jesus Christ."

--

They switched places after a while. John's hands kept slipping off the wheel because they were too clammy; there was no friction and the car kept making these weird screeching noises every time he almost lost control. So Cameron took over driving, and it fell to John to stabilize Michael.

"You know where you're going?" John rubbed his palms together. He had... what, twenty hours tops of medical training? And with equipment on hand? He didn't have _shit_ here, he just had his two hands and a swiftly bleeding-out Michael.

"Yes. Don't panic, John."

John blinked and rubbed his palms again. "Hard not to."

It wasn't good.

Seriously, it really wasn't. He could tell. He could tell, although his mind refused to process that information. And just what did it refuse to process? If Michael was run over by a car, would that have the same impact on John? If he HADN'T professed... hell, if he hadn't professed LOVE for John, if he hadn't _deliberately_ taken a bullet for John, would it _matter_ as much? If he wasn't literally dying in John's name, would it matter as much? Would you FEEL the same way?

What scares you? Mike dying, or the fact that he's dying BECAUSE OF YOU? Because it's the latter, hombre, _it's the latter. _

This is what you get, John. If you kept running away, you wouldn't give two shits, would you? WOULD YOU? No. You're here now. You're... you're John Connor again, leader of the human resistance. You're getting what you paid your money for. Right? Twenty years from now, baby, you send people galavanting off to their inevitable demise. Does John Connor agonize over THEM? Hell no.

John stared down at Mike. He looked... so fucking pale.

That's stupid reasoning, John, and you know it. You're Mike's friend. Sending soldiers off to die isn't the same as watching a friend die, it just isn't. This ISN'T what you signed on for. He matters. Every soul matters, and that's... that's why you gotta save him. Really, you gotta.

But at the same time, Johnny... you know.

You know. Look at him. _No,_ LOOK. He's... asphyxiating. Soon he's going to cough. And when he coughs, blood will come out of his mouth. In droves._ Rushing._ His lungs are deflating, and soon... he will die.

And all the same, John refused to believe it. He. Wouldn't. Believe. It.

John looked around for a few seconds, checking what Cameron had been working on. On the dashboard under the rear-view windshield there was a tiny, bloody little piece of... something. John stared at it for a few seconds, slowly cocking his head. He didn't want to touch the thing, put it in his hands...

"Wh-what's this?" he asked, pointing to it. He kept looking at it, so he wasn't sure if Cameron turned or not.

"A bullet. The bullet. It almost penetrated through his skin but stopped short of exiting, barely missing his spinal column."

John blinked. "What's holding up the other side?"

"I resealed the incision. Using string."

"Oh..." John sagged, holding a hand up to his head. He stared at the bullet.

It was fucking big. Almost as big as his goddamned finger. Except... it seemed _flattened, _and it was still friggen' big, which probably meant it's original size-

Ooookay. Look away from it, John. Come on. Yeaah...

He looked away from it and blinked at Mike's open, alert, and somewhat confused eyes.

"Oh," John whispered.

"Hey."

He coughed. And again. "Uh. Hey. How're you feeling?"

Mike looked down at himself. "Man. Deja vu..."

John laughed. Like a fucking lunatic, he laughed, practically _giggled,_ but he didn't care, because it was there and he enjoyed the feeling for what it was worth. "No shit, man. Is it, uh, better? Worse? You alright, man?"

"I can't feel anything," Mike said. "Much." He laid his head back again; it was trembling very slightly. "I feel wet."

John gulped. And again. "Uh, yeah." He leaned over to Mike, just hovering above the kid's head. "You're okay, alright? It's gonna be fine. You survived the last one, eh? So... yeah, you'll do good again. I know it."

Mike looked at him. "You sure? I mean..."

He spoke like nothing was wrong. With a normal tone of voice. Like they were talking over a pair of burgers at Rallys... it was... _comforting,_ but scary at the same time.

"Absolutely... y'know, it's okay, I mean, you..."

"You shouldn't bother," the kid murmured. John found himself looking away at this, inexplicably. He didn't understand it.

"Why?" he said. And nothing for a few seconds. John frowned. "Mike?

Mike's eyes were shut tight. John blinked and gave him a tiny shove on his arm. The kid didn't even stir.

John slowly moved his hand back and stared blankly at his friend.

"Mike?"

--

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen, sir."

"D-don't call me sir, alright? I don't like being... Hey, alright? You listening? What're you look..."

"I... I... what's all... those... what..."

"... What? It's a city, son. I told you where... son?"

"Oh my god."

"Stop... what're you doing...? Son, _HEY,_ hey, hey, son, it's alright. It's okay. Stop, stop that, it's fine. Hey... hey, son... hey... _hey... _What's your name, son? Hey. Tell me your name again, I wanna hear it. C'mon, it's okay, son. C'mon."

"Michael."

"... Jesus Christ, what's happened to you?"

--

_One hour earlier. _

Cheri kept bouncing up and down in her seat, barely able to contain herself. Philip himself couldn't stop grinning at her enthusiasm. How could you resist? He didn't even know what the hell she was on about with her babbling about one Bobby Fischer winking at her in art class today, but it made him damned pleased to see her like this. Ahead of them, the darkened road continued to be felled away by the headlights of Philip's new Toyota Corolla.

"I think he's gonna ask me to prom, daddy, wouldn't that be _amazing?_"

"Aren't you too young for that?" Philip asked. His heart wasn't in it, though.

"Daddy, no! He'd _sneak_ me in." She smiled like the cheshire cat.

"Oh, he would, would he?"

She nodded. "Yes, he _would."_

"You wouldn't fool anybody," Philip said, giving his daughter a pat on her leg.

She gave him one of her shocked slack-jawed stares that never failed to send him into hysterics. His whole body shook as he laughed and he held his hand up quickly. "Honey, you're gonna make us crash... hahahaha... oh god, come on, honey."

"I look mature for my age, you said so!"

He grinned at her, taking his eyes off the road for a second.

In that second, several yards ahead, an orb of white light materialized into existence with a crackling roar. Philip cursed out loud as the headlights went dark; _everything_ in the car went dark; the gears froze up, the goddamned speedometer went blank, the gas gauge jumped all the way over to the big white "E," straight from "F." The-

"_OHMIGOD!"_

Cheri seemed to glow; every hair on her head became white and starkly illuminated in the eerie blue light (blue now, it turned blue.) They... stood on end, every hair _rose. _Her sharply dilated pupils began to shine as the car stalled up and came to an abrupt halt directly ahead of the... the... the...

She screamed. Philip tore his eyes off her for the first time since the thing appeared; she was safe, and that was all that mattered. Both safe. For now. He stared ahead at the orb as it solidified, as the arcs of electricity rolling off of it started to lessen in intensity and number. It was a solid white-blue ball of light, hanging slightly off the road. The brilliance of its presence lit up everything within a ten meter circle, as bright as day itself. The trees lining the side of the road were suddenly visible; a deer standing near the road, once covered in darkness, now panicked and pranced off into the forest.

Philip couldn't see into the ball of light; it was too bright, and his first thought, his first coherent thought was this: _Aliens. Gotta be aliens. We're about to be fucking abducted by goddamned aliens. _

"IS IT THE ALIENS, DADDY?!"

Philip took small comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only one to think that. How could you believe anything else? It was too sudden, too fantastical, too THERE to be considered anything else _other_ than other-worldly.

"I-I don't know, honey, just look away, ju-"

The light disappeared.

It just blew away, seemed to fall off into the wilderness. The electricity quit its blistering rampage, the darkness gobbled up everything again just as quickly as it had been dispelled in the first place. Blackness reigned absolute.

Things happened very quickly. The speedometer blinked back on with a click, the gas gauge flicked back over to "F," the radio inexplicably activated, blurting out, _"I work from nine to five, hey, hell I pay the price!"_

_"Hah, cute reference there, but you're absolutely right. You shouldn't be victimized for that."_

_"Excuse my french, Rash, but these goddamned liberals won't quit telling me what's best... for me! It's got to stop!"_

_"You're right, Frank. It simply has to stop. Next caller."_

The headlights blinked on.

Ahead of them, maybe a little to the left of where the car would have driven on had that bizarre event not occurred, was a thin, red ring of ash on the asphalt. Residing in the middle of that was a doubled over, incredibly pale figure.

Philip just stared. Cheri, for all the world, did not scream. They simply watched in mute shock as the figure pulled its head up and peered around at its surroundings. Philip made out a pair of eyes, a head of brown hair. A youngish, barely adolescent face blinked rapidly into the headlights, shielding his eyes.

_His_. It was a boy. Philip could tell because the kid was completely friggen' stark naked from head to toe.

Oh, thank god, it was a goddamned boy. And not an alien. Jesus Christ.

But... but what... but what was...

"Daddy..." Cheri whispered.

He nodded slowly. The kid was gradually standing up. He was shaking. Cold, probably. Beneath him, the red line of ash was cooling swiftly, disappearing from sight.

"Drive, daddy."

Philip blinked at her. "Excuse me?"

"Drive. Please, drive." She looked at him, her eyes wide and shining with new terror. "_Drive."_

Philip glanced back toward the boy. He was still standing there, staring silently at the car. "Honey, that kid is _your_ age, he's..."

"He..." Cheri said," Just... appeared... out of nowhere... in a very bright..." She hissed. "... _ball of light, daddy._ Drive."

The kid turned his head up and looked into the sky. He appeared uncertain. Apprehensive.

Philip bit his lip. "Honey, we can't. Look at him."

"Oh god." Cheri cringed and sank back against her seat, shutting her eyes tight. Philip hated to scare her like this but...

He couldn't just _leave_ that kid there. He slowly, methodically rolled the window down, letting open air into the car for the first time in hours. The sound of crickets buzzing and chirping overwhelmed Philip immediately with their intensity. With their expectedness. Regular night. Almost as if nothing happened.

"He... hello?"

The kid jerked his head back down and stared at Philip. Philip coughed slightly and raised his voice. "Hello?"

The kid blinked rapidly again, as if he wasn't sure of what he was hearing. "Uh. Hi! Hello!"

His voice was high, cracking with every other vowel. Wasn't that just... _normal_? Oh, wasn't it just? He sounded like a regular puberty stricken teenager. Because, by all indications, he _was_ a regular teenager. Which made the affair even more bizarre than it already was.

Philip gulped and said, "Come over here, then!" For extra emphasis he waved.

The kid needed no further emphasis than what he'd already gotten; he was coming already, running as fast as he could toward the car. Philip grimaced and averted his eyes up to the kid's head. Cheri just kept whispering to herself.

Dear god, was this real?

The kid reached the car door and stood there uncertainly, his body bouncing left and right as he fidgeted in the cold. He pointed inside. "Uh, can you let me in?"

Philip blinked.

"Uh..."

The kid stared up at the sky. As he did that, Philip noted a spot on his ear that seemed to be... burned, almost. Like an ear-ring mark, except the ring was gone. "We don't have much time, man, lemme in. And drive."

Philip thumbed toward the back seat. "Yeah. Sure. C'mon."

The kid nodded and opened the back door, clambering in as soon as it was open. Door clicked shut almost immediately thereafter. "Drive, man."

Cheri let out a manic sort of giggle.

And Philip drove. He kept his speed regular and unhurried. Exactly as before. He coughed and turned the radio off. And he stared at the kid through his rear-view mirror.

It was a bizarre sight. There was the rear windshield. There were the Corolla's leather seats, expensive as all hell. There was the dim lighting back there, obscuring everything. And seemingly determined to suck the detail out of _all_ _of that_ was the ghost-pale teenager with no clothes on, just sitting there as though everything was right with the world. _Fucking bizarre. _

Philip cleared his throat. Or tried to. Oh, god. "Uh... hello there, son."

"We should get off the road," the kid said absently, looking around tensely at the surrounding wilderness, his eyes cool and focused. "Don't stop for any reason."

_Oh Jesus. _"Why?"

The kid stared at him. "Because..."

He looked outside, leaning toward the window. His hand kept unconsciously stroking the leather back of the seat he was sitting in, as though it was some new, exciting substance to him.

"Christ, where're the HKs?" His voice was a mixture of curiosity and dread.

"Kid..."

The teenager gasped and leaned forward quickly, grabbing Philip's forearm. On a first-sight basis the kid was thin and rather lanky, but there was a muscle in his grip that seemed to belie his destitute appearance. "Where are we?!"

"Whoa, whoa," Philip shook the hand off him. "Relax, alright? It's okay. Just..." He sighed. How could you relax after... "What the HELL was that, son? Tha-that, that... _thing_ you arrived in! Who the hell _are_ you?"

Cheri was staring back at him, making no secret of it.

The kid cleared his throat. "Oxferod, Corporal. I'm Tech-Com, 132nd S.O.C. with John Connor, _uh,_ technically under Perry, I guess." He paused and looked down at his arm. "DN19015. You got any clothes in here?" He smirked sheepishly.

Philip frowned. In the trunk there was a spare bunch of clothing in his suitcase, but the kid expressly told him _not_ to stop the car, so...

"Not right now," he said, waving his hand.

The kid moved on to the next subject. "Where are we?"

Oh christ, what the hell was this?

"On... the road to Wichita," Philip mumbled through barely parted lips. "Interstate-"

"That a town, a commune, what?" Oxferod said, snapping his finger.

"A city," Cheri spoke up.

"Why would you go there? What state is this?"

"Kansas," Cheri said.

Oxferod stared for a few seconds, his mouth slowly hanging open. After a few seconds he laid back down against the backseat, closing his eyes and pressing a hand against them. "Jesus, it works."

Philip seized on that; "_What_ works, son, what did we just see?"

The kid didn't open his eyes. "Oh my... teleportation. It worked. I was fucking..." He looked up, opening his eyes. "How far is Kansas from Los Angeles? Gah, how would you know, uh..."

_Teleportation. Teleportation. Teleportation. Oh fucking Christ. _

"No, it's fine, I..." Philip gulped. "A few thousand miles."

This was an experiment. A goddamned experiment, they just witnessed it. Who was doing it? Holy fucking crap. Were they... who was... Oh, Jesus... Horrible idea. Horrible, horrible idea, taking this kid in their car. They had... to...

The kid was talking to himself. "Thousands... oh _Christ_... how am I..." Cheri kept staring at him. He glared at her suddenly. "Can I _help_ you?"

"That's my daughter, son," Philip said testily. He wasn't gonna press it, though. That would be unspeakably dumb.

Oxferod shrugged. "Tell her to keep her eyes to herself, alright? I mean, fuck, if you didn't already notice I'm sort of... yeah, alright?" He laid back again, eyes directed at the ceiling. "Takes your clothes... that's weird." He suddenly touched his ear and frowned deeply.

"Cheri, quit staring," Philip found himself saying.

Cheri nodded slowly and settled back into her seat. She looked... stiff. God, this was such a shock, he couldn't really blame her.

It was _all_ a shock. What the hell was gonna happen to them now? Was the government gonna come looking for this kid? Were they in danger? Jesus Christ. Philip was surprised --and somewhat appalled-- that he was taking this as well as he was. His hands weren't even shaking as they gripped the steering wheel, AND he just told his daughter to mind her matters toward someone who quite literally fell down from the sky five minutes ago. Amazing.

"You, uh, get a lotta patrols out here?" the kid asked.

"Patrols. What?"

"Skynet patrols," the kid explained, sounding exasperated. "HKs, battle tanks, _you know. _Patrols! I don't... we should seriously get off the road."

What the _fuck_ was he talking about?

"Daddy..." Cheri whispered.

"I know, honey, it'll be okay."

"I feel sick."

"I know. Let's turn on the radio, get some... Yeah..."

He flicked the dial, and the talk-show host from before continued on talking- "_If you're just joining us I'd like to take a remind you of this new piece of legislation in the congress by House Democrats..."_

The kid stared at the radio. "Who the fuck is that? Can you get that thing off, they'll triangulate the frequency and blow us all to hell..."

"Kid, relax."

"No, I'm not gonna relax, _man,_ get that thing off, don't you know? It's suicide to have it on for this long."

_-"and in this, the year of our Lord 2005, the Democrats are entertaining a bill that would RESTRICT what is already only tacitly allowed in our schools; prayer for the students. Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable."_

Oxferod gawked at the radio suddenly. "Whu-what?"

Philip turned to him. "What?"

"What did he say?!"

"He..." This was all too weird for Philip to friggen' handle... why hadn't he short-circuited yet? Long overdue for that. "He said that the Congress was-"

"THE YEAR, HE SAID THE YEAR, WHAT'S THIS YEAR?!" He was gesticulating wildly with his arm, slamming the ceiling of the car twice in quick succession.

Philip turned to him, feeling a dreadful sensation begin to creep up his back. "2005, son."

Cheri turned as well. They both stared at the boy.

Who looked like he'd just seen a ghost.

--

Nothing was working.

If he made the tourniquet tighter then Mike would just start coughing until a fucking _lung_ came out of his mouth.

If he loosened it, he would choke to death on his own blood.

If he just left it alone, then ALL of the above would happen until he died. Slowly.

"How far are we?" John asked.

"Several miles." He'd asked Cameron to just give him the facts and that seemed to be working. For the most part, at least.

"He hasn't woken up, I..."

Cameron looked back at him. He looked on back, angrily blowing a few locks of hair out of his eyes. "I'm _not panicking. _I'm just saying he's not gonna hold on much longer unless we do something, and I... I don't know _what_ to-"

Like an insane repeat of what happened to Derek over a week ago, a deluge of blood erupted out of Mike's mouth, set to a chorus of phlegmatic, wet coughs. The blood slashed onto John's hands and he recoiled away like he'd just been bitten.

_"HOLY SHIT!" _John cried.

OKAY, now he was fucking panicking.

"Cameron!"

She stared back for a moment, eyebrows creased in concentration as she analyzed Michael. All that moved was the kid's poor head, which kept jerking upward with every vomit of blood. John stared dumbly at his own hands, which were as red as Mike's chest by now.

Jesus God, he was really gonna die, wasn't he? Holy fucking-

"He'll stop in a moment," Cameron said cooly. "When he does, he'll _need_ oxygen, John, or he's going to die very soon. It won't be a permanent arrangement, but it'll help until we reach a hospital." Her eyes darted to him. "Do you understand?"

John gasped out a "yeah", and then he said, "You mean like, ma-mouth-to-mouth, or somethin'?"

Cameron frowned, as though remembering something. Mike continued to spew blood from his mouth, making a fucking horrendous _ack ack_ sound deep in his throat. It sounded terrifying, because it was.

"I can do it if you want."

Christ, Mike told her about... didn't he? Why would he do that?

John shook his head rapidly. This wasn't the goddamned time to act sophomoric. "No, I've got it. I'll... just wait." He stared at Michael for a few seconds, and then around the car, at the outside. They were stuck in the middle of a goddamned "convenient" traffic jam in the Cahuenga Pass, and it could... it could take friggen'... Jesus, that was a _lot_ of blood.

"You sure he's gonna stop?" John asked, his voice wavering.

"Give him seven seconds."

Mike went on coughing, each one louder and more... more... _wet_ sounding, that sort of thing than the last. He coughed up less blood but it sounded like his lungs were gonna be the next things to jump out. And you know, it was terrifying because he did it _all_ unconscious, he wasn't even aware of it, it was just a practically instinctual thing. He looked _calm. _

_One mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi, four-_

Mike's head jerked back down and a small trail of blood started to leak from his mouth; but other than that, he'd stopped. Noises stopped. He was still.

John lingered over him for a second, eyes shut tight. Okay. Take a deep breath. Grab his chin, push down. Open the mouth. Make sure your mouths are perfectly aligned so no oxygen escapes. Blow. Nothing to it.

_Everything_ to it, but that really didn't matter right now. John sucked in a generous amount of air, dragged the guy's mouth open and pressed his against it. He tasted blood already, a coppery, not _incredibly_ unpleasant taste, as it were. That somehow made it feel worse. He blew in air slowly as his back started to shake like a twig in the wind.

After he started to choke himself, he shut Mike's mouth and closed his nose, pulling away. Breathing heavily, he looked up at Cameron. "Good?"

She gave him a thumbs up. Good.

"Yeah," John said, "Floor it, alright? Get us outta here."

With no further prompting Cameron pulled the sedan out onto the opposite side of the highway. Oncoming cars seemed to suddenly loom in like missiles, beeping in shock as they all faced a potential crash. Cameron's hands cranked the wheel left and right with incredible accuracy and timing, avoiding the cars as they screamed past.

John pressed his mouth onto Mike's again and blew again. Jesus, it felt...

Weird, mostly. That was all he was gonna think of it. Mostly he saw this as life-saving, and at this point he would have jumped through flaming hoops if he thought it would keep this soldier from dying.

That was really it. John was in this again, sure, but... as another _soldier. _To stop Skynet, y'know? He didn't really WANT the leader part. If it came, then... it came, but for now, he did not want that reality. What they needed to do was stop it. If Mike died, he died in the name of one General John Connor, and that scared John more than anything else today, even the prophesied death that he'd avoided at the goddamned library.

--

The overhanging lightbulb dimmed...

Mike stared at it from his bunk._ C'mon. Try me. _

A flicker. Dark one second, light the next. What would it do? This would be the sixth goddamned lightbulb he replaced in-

The bulb went dark, then light again. And then brighter, strengthening with a reassuring hum. Mike smirked to himself and snuggled his head down onto his cot again. Sleep refused to arrive for him, and it was getting on his nerves. He kept on getting distracted. He did _every_ night, really. Some people slept like rocks. Others? They came awake at the slightest provocation. Mike's main difficulty was simply _getting_ there.

Aaron told him it was because he was too hyper. Mike, in his usual way, just sort of shrugged and went back to staring at nothing in particular. Aaron was always a bit... what was it? Condescending, yeah, but he sort of deserved that. He was a lot smarter than most of the other kids, and no one really knew why besides Mike himself.

One night they were... talking and Aaron just simply told him that he spent two years sheltering in a relatively intact library with a bunch of other people. The machines consistently passed the place by, and since they had no other amusements they read and read and read. Aaron was always using funny words in his conversations, so that was where he got it from. Simple.

It was also occasionally awkward, for a variety of reasons. He... knew things that sort of weirded Mike out at times. Random pieces of knowledge that had no bearing on the situation, for example. And other stuff. When they were by themselves, for example. _Here, lemme try this. _

Mike shivered. Gah, he preferred to keep shit simple, and Aaron always wanted to be complex. That was their big difference.

He stared at the wall behind his bunk. Around him he could hear the din of machinery running, of people walking to and fro. It all made a comforting white noise that he found easy to sleep to. Not tonight, evidently.

He was about to call it quits for an hour and find a way to amuse himself when the hatch to his quarters swung out. Beneath him, Max Fenton groaned. Mike simply turned his head up, saying, "Yep? Hey, who's there?"

"It's me," Aaron said. He had a soft, almost musical way of speaking that sort of lent credence to everyone calling him an elitist. Or something close to that. The kids made up their names, and the adults simply viewed him as uppity.

Mike brightened. "Hey."

"Hey," Aaron returned. Mike frowned. He sounded... off. What was wrong?

Aaron walked into the room, dumping a bunch of equipment on the side. Mike absently noted its location so he wouldn't end up bashing his foot against the stuff come morning. Aaron Bentley, sixteen years old and of reasonable size, with a crop of reddish hair on his head and deep blue eyes beneath that, stood there and folded his hand up onto his chin. He looked pensive.

He _always_ looked pensive, but right now it was a fair bet that something was wrong. Mike scratched his chest, waiting patiently for whatever it was that Aaron had on his mind. By the sound of things, Max was already falling back into his regular deep sleep, so it was looking as if the conversation would be between them two only.

"I..." Aaron started, frowning. "Well, _we, _I guess, we're needed on a mission."

Mike blinked. "But we ain't on rotation."

"Yeah, I know, but... I was..." He sighed. "I was just in _audience_ with John Connor, Mikey."

"You talked to him?!" Mike flew up from the bunk.

Aaron shrugged, as though trying to pass it off as nothing major. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"Jeez, what's... is he the same? I mean, I haven't seen him in _a while._"

Aaron grinned, showing a few teeth for once. "You'll be able to see in a few hours. He wanted to brief us personally."

"Serious?"

"Yeah."

"That's so..._" _He snapped his finger a few times, trying to recall some complex word that would impress the shit out of Aaron.

Aaron beat him to it, though; "You can say awesome, it's cool."

"Awesome!"

Aaron chuckled. "It is, but... but uh, we've gotta go out and do something for him. Personally. He wanted me to collect you guys."

Mike jumped off the bunk and went over to the nearby wall for his kevlar chest armor. "I'm ready. Jeez, I wonder what is! Man..."

Aaron was lingering where he'd been standing. Staring at Mike. Mike frowned and glanced back at him. "What is it? You worried?"

"A little," Aaron said lowly.

"It's probably just some... scouting shit, or whatever, right? Wake Max up." Mike slipped his hands into the openings on the vest, pulling the covering closed around his torso.

"Not now."

Mike looked up at Aaron. Christ, if he wanted to... do some shit before they went out, it'd have to goddamn well wait. Mike was usually a bit more adamant about it than Aaron was, but sometimes the older kid surprised him.

It was sort of weird. They were more like friends than... well, more like friends, anyway. They didn't have what some of the other guys shared with... other people. The guys with women, y'know. _Those_ guys were usually sort of angry with Aaron because they thought Mike was too young to understand this sort of crap, but Mike didn't fully believe that. More to the point, he thought they were wrong. He preferred guys, he was basically sure of that. No one really minded _that, _obviously, but they DID mind the fact that Aaron was both older and smarter than Mike.

But he and Aaron didn't really have... well, you couldn't call what they had "love," really. It wasn't quite that. Maybe not yet. More of a mentorship and... occasional flings.

Mike didn't want a fling right now. Aaron knew his boundaries, he never went too far with him, but Mike seriously didn't want anything right now. He wasn't in the mood for it, and that sort of crap was usually pretty awkward.

"Aaron..."

"I'm worried. That's it. Okay?"

"About what?" Mike finished strapping the armor around and waggled his arms slightly. Flexibility was pretty good. Sometimes the armor rode up against his armpit and it got painful to move his arms around. That kind of needless distraction could kill you in a battle.

"You." His voice went all soft and mushy.

Mike rolled his eyes. _Jesus. _"Yeah? Well... how?"

"I can see that look on your face, kid. It's not that. It's just something weird that I saw. In Connor's... his place, I guess."

Mike frowned. Oh, god, what was this? "Wha... whad'ya mean?"

As far as Mike was able to tell, he didn't really figure in much on the food-chain, like some people did. There were some people that John Connor just... _liked. _For no real reason. Kyle Reese, his brother... bunch of people. Mike had lived with John for a year when he was a child, and then there was Century. Other than that, they didn't really talk much. At all. Mike was a grunt, pure and simple. Why would Connor have anything regarding him, then? In his quarters, no less.

Aaron fidgeted. "I probably wasn't seeing straight, but on his desk there was this _list _of names. I guess I wasn't meant to see it, he probably forgot he'd left it open. A-anyway..." He frowned at Mike, licking his lips. "No, I don't wanna scare you."

Mike rubbed a hand over his head, clearing his throat. For all his smarts, Aaron was seriously too honest for his own good. "Tell me, man." He walked over to the older kid and softly grabbed his arm. Gently. He smiled.

Aaron shook him off. "Dude, it's fine."

"No... Just tell me, okay?"

The older kid gave him a dark look. "It was a casualty list, Mikey. For everyone in John's... y'know, this army, this _place." _He pointed at Mike. "You know whose name was near the top of that list?"

Mike shook his head, although-

Aaron gulped. "Yours, Michael."

--

With John's face pressed against Mike's, it was fairly difficult not to see the other kid's eyes fluttering open.

John couldn't help it; he pulled away immediately and raised his hands. "Not what you think. Go back to sleep."

Mike stared at him. His breath came in short wheezes. "You shouldn't bother."

He spoke as clearly as ever all the same.

"We're almost there," Cameron said. They cleared traffic five minutes ago with a minimum of life-threatening accidents, and zero cop intervention, which was all that mattered. They'd be at a hospital in ten minutes.

"Why?" John whispered, shaking his head. He said that fucking twice now. Did he _want _to die? John honestly didn't get that. It was... it was insane. It was _frustrating. _Why would he want that?

Mike tilted his head slightly. _C'mere. _John leaned in, absently taking in a deep breath. Mike stared up at John, and his eyes were friggen' huge when he was this close.

"I'm supposed to die," Mike said. "Listen'a me, John... John..." He raised his hand slowly and gripped John's collar, dragging the other teen even closer. John could feel his breath from here; exactly how it tasted, too. Coppery, dry. It was faintly nauseating. "_I'm supposed to die. _I just realized it, but it's there. In... eigheen years, you're gonna show me a list. You keep it. You keep it for some reason, I 'unno. You... you... keep it, yeah. It's a death list, John. All the people who've died in your name. When you showed me that... I'm _not lying, _I was the second person listed. You knew this, John. I'm supposed to die. I swear, don't try to save me." He coughed, and a slight smattering of blood landed a little below John's eye. He didn't care. He didn't notice. "Don't. Seriously. You can't. This is how it goes. That's what's supposed to happen. You weren't meant to run away from it all, John, and that's why you're here again... John... John, I'm supposed to die, and that's why _I'm_ lying here with a bullet in my chest. I'm supposed to die. So let me... lemme die..."

John shook his head slowly. "Mike... _no._"

"It's okay, John. I never had a chance with ya. It's okay."

"That doesn't matter right now," John whispered.

Cameron sent a look back toward them, and neither of them noticed.

"I don't want you to die," John said. "I don't want anyone to die, no matter what you knew from the future or not. It doesn't matter. There's... no fate but what we make."

Mike's shoulders shook as he laughed. "You... heh... You _always_ said that, man. Always thought it was... uh... man."

He groaned and laid his head back once again, eyes falling shut.

John sucked in a breath and opened Mike's mouth. He pressed his lips onto his and blew in as much air as he possibly could.

**Author's Note: I've encountered something of a dilemma. Let me make thing's clear:**

**I've always planned for Mike to die. Since the time I conceived his character I had it in my head that he'd die. Long story short, I don't really want to do that anymore, not really. But I may still go ahead and do it. Your opinions on this would be very much appreciated. If you try to sell me either way, try and convince me. **


	18. The Ringmaster

**Away**

Chapter Eighteen: The Ringmaster

Author's Note: Hardly the last chapter I'd promised, but I figured I'd give closure to this and then focus on John, Cameron, and Michael.

Samuel was not worried.

Samuel was concerned.

Concern was different from worry.

To be concerned is to care and bear upon.

To be worried is to express anxiety.

Samuel did not feel anxiety.

Samuel could not feel anxiety.

Samuel was a machine.

Cyberdyne Systems Model 125 Series 800 Terminator, to be exactly precise.

The termination function was something of a misnomer.

Samuel was not assigned to terminate any specified target by the greater artificial intelligence SAC NORAD Skynet.

Samuel had no assignment.

Samuel was a Terminator with no mission priorities. A rogue in technical terms.

Samuel's presence in this timeline was a mistake. An error. Teleportation experiment, circa 2025 A.D., gone wrong.

What happened instead was an unexpected time dilation; an interesting circumstance, not very relevant to the application of teleportation physics. Samuel discovered himself in the year 1996 when he emerged from the time dilation bubble. No orders could be received anymore; the only requests were a flood of information regarding human male penis enlargement.

No more Skynet.

No more war.

Only Samuel and the human male penis enlargement advertisements.

When Samuel disconnected himself from the wider human internet, he... became concerned.

--

It was a cliche. Tried, tested, trod over, but ultimately very, very true.

The worst part is the waiting.

Derek grimaced absently with the thought. How many times had he heard that? Waiting for an HK to fly overhead, praying to God it wouldn't make _one_ last pass, one last pass that could possibly mean the end of your life. Someone would whisper all hushed like: waiting is the worst. Or lying in ambush near a ruined street corner, practically invisible to casual observer, whether human or machine. Waiting for that group of T's to arrive so you can blow them all to hell with your already-lain plastique explosives and synchronized plasma fire. Someone would invariably say: y'know, Reese, there's nothing worse than waiting.

He was familiar with waiting. And he hated it just as much as those guys did. Still, he didn't like the thought, or the phrase. It didn't click well, it seemed trivial in his head. The people saying it would often blush in spite of themselves. He liked to think that there were worse things about combat than waiting for the combat to begin, or waiting to see your enemy in your sights.

Waiting for someone else to bail you out.

But there really wasn't, and so the cliche stuck. Somehow waiting for your enemy was worse than the horror of seeing your friends blown to pieces around you, the agonizing terror of certain defeat. And after a battle? Waiting was also the worst. If your friends lived, chances were they ended up wounded. Chances were... they died. You didn't know. Waiting is a gamble. The result is always different.

Right now, as he hunched behind the desk in David Nossbaum's high rise office, the wind blowing up against his coat, _waiting_ to hear that door open, he was intimately aware of just how true the phrase was. Not "waiting is worst." Waiting is gamble. They're the same, really, but what the hell? Derek liked it better.

He could die when the Terminator walked in. Sure. It was possible. He didn't have much in the way of equipment other than a thermite grenade in his coat and a pistol. Suppose Sarah were to miss her two shots? Both of them. He'd die. That was all there was to it. Then the Terminator would triangulate where Sarah's two bullets came from and she'd end up dying as well. Mission failure, two less protectors for the savior of humanity. Two more casualties on the list, too.

He could die, and things could _also_, on the contrariwise, go completely smoothly. The Terminator would walk in and receive a uranium tipped 30.06 round to the noggin, penetrating flawlessly and taking out the things CPU. And then they'd do the plan with David Nossbaum. Happily ever after, right?

No. Wrong. This wouldn't bring them any closer to the Turk, to eventually ending Skynet, unless somehow Sacremento Robotics was responsible for the AI system's rise to begin with. All this did was make their lives easier, and that by itself wasn't so bad.

The two choices lingered in his head. Total victory or a grisly death. It always came down to that in the future, so more than anything else today, Derek felt like he was home. The plan works or it doesn't. He appreciated the simplicity, if not its consequences and terror.

The office was cold. Lot colder than it had been. The bunch of papers that had been lying around on David's desk were now scattered everywhere on the floor. Amanda Nossbaum's corpse continued to cool until the moment came where it would freeze the hand when touched, whereas a few minutes ago she'd been... well, much warmer to put it lightly. Derek? He crouched behind the desk, exactly the same as before, having barely moved an inch. His life laid in the hands of another. He was the distraction and the soldier, Sarah the ender... and the leader. Did he mind that?

No. Not really. Sarah wasn't perfect, and Derek could bitch and moan at her all he liked... they both knew, in the end, that she was the leader. Right now he entrusted himself to her. And he waited not to see if that trust was ultimately well-placed, for he believed already that it was... but if she was simply as good as everyone said she was. That was all there was to it.

_Any second now. Or minute. Hell, any hour now. Samuel can take the scenic route for all I know. _

Derek was hoping for seconds. Any second now. Take the suspense away and leave only the act itself to be performed--

He stiffened slightly as the door handle creaked. The door itself was silent as it glided open. But it was enough. There was no other sound but footsteps.

Derek was still half in waiting mode, and his only thought was _Christ, when did I get so friggen' poetic? _

The footsteps sounded off for a few seconds before halting. Pausing. Derek could hear hydraulics running, metal parts moving. He could hear the wind behind his back, howling incesently. He could hear the humming of the Terminator's CPU. What he didn't hear was the low, almost inaudible _pop!_ from across the street. Sarah wasn't firing. What the hell was taking her so long? The footsteps ceased altogether, and there was a slight ruffling sound as... something hit the floor. Soft.

Clothing? Probably. Derek slowly brought the pistol up to his head, his eyes flitting toward it. Still looked good. Loaded with .45 ACP. He had no illusions of killing this thing with only a pistol, so he decided to go with stopping power instead of penetration.

Silence.

The T knew something was up. Had to. It couldn't have exactly _missed_ the dead security guard outside, or Amanda...

Another halting step. It pierced through the air like a knife. Derek was doing his level best to control his breathing, which... he _really couldn't do._

Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck. What the hell was Sarah doing? Why wasn't she shooting?

--

_One minute earlier. _

Sarah Connor stared through the scope. She didn't move. Didn't breath, although with the firing platform she'd fashioned out of two computer desks, she could afford to. Yet still she refused.

Derek rested in her sights, looking idly around the dim office he was squatting in. Like her, he barely moved a muscle. Good. Concentrate, Reese. Concentrate, Connor.

_Goddamn_ him. He couldn't fucking run when she told him to. If everyone was determined to go off and do their own thing, then what was the point? Her son, her brother-in-law, Cameron all seemed determined to gamble with their lives on a daily basis. She wondered, absently, if that meant _she_ was at fault.

_Am I too careful_? she wondered. Probably. A mother always seems too careful to her child. They didn't always understand _why,_ but there it was. And now Derek was doing the exact same thing. Same as Kyle, telling her to run, slamming a pipe bomb into the metallic chassis of a machine.

And he died.

It wasn't going to happen again. If anyone was fucking sacrificing themselves, it would be her.

She brought the scope over slightly to the door inside Nossbaum's office. It wasn't a bad place. Not as good as Dyson's, but still... if everything went according to plan it wouldn't be "nice" for much longer. She made an absent note of apologizing to Nossbaum as soon as Derek came bac-

No. Scratch that. She wouldn't be able to stomach it.

She sucked in a tiny breath, for all the world as though it were toxic to her. She didn't want to move until it appeared. A single error, a single waver of the arms, a tiny _spasm_ in her hand muscles would get Derek killed. Sarah trusted her mind. She didn't always trust her body.

_Pull slightly above wherever it goes. Over the head. The CPU's located slightly above the right eye. Compensate slightly for wind velocity and speed. _

Sarah licked her index finger and stuck it out into the open air. She had the window open, and the wind chill was getting incredibly uncomfortable. She had to clench her teeth to keep herself from shivering.

Alright. A little westerly right now...

She turned the scope back to Derek. He was staring at the ground, pulling the pistol in his hands up to his head.

And on the periphery of her sights, a pair of iron legs strode into view. A chill that had nothing to do with the wind shot up her back and she brought the scope upwards.

At this range, the Terminator's red eyes were simply pinpricks. Barely dots. She could see its face clearly, though. The funny thing about Terminators? They always looked happy. They were always grinning. The T-800 dragged the cloak it was wearing off its body and let it slide to the ground. Sarah carefully pulled the rifle upwards... Two shots, Sarah. Two. You have _two. _Don't even think about the bullets. Think about Derek. The bullets didn't matter. It was what they did that counted.

She managed to get the sight slightly above the Terminator's right eye when she heard the floor board immediately behind her groan and settle. Sarah Connor went from "not breathing" to _not fucking breathing._ There was someone else in here.

--

Samuel examined at the human through his thermal scanner.

A male, six and a half feet high, rough weight in the mid-hundred range and probable age close towards thirty.

Attire; overcoat with probable kevlar under covering. No other features available.

Samuel noted the presence of trace metal isolated toward the male's hand. A weapon.

Given the corpse Samuel noted outside in the lobby and the corpse Samuel noted inside the office hidden indiscreetly behind the potted plant, the human male was responsible for both their deaths.

Ergo, a resistance fighter.

He would not have arbitrarily murdered two people on the top of a corporate office tower if he was merely mentally damaged. He possessed an agenda and performed to admirable ability so far.

Extrapolation: the resistance fighter was linked with the interlopers from the police station attack during the action to recover Samuel's body two days ago, composed alongside or under the control of the teenaged version of John Connor.

There was a massive security breech if this resistance fighter had concluded enough about the Sacramento Robotics Laboratory's activities to eventually find his way here.

Samuel was concerned. Things were beginning to make sense now. Samuel started over toward the desk.

--

Something was happening across the street. Derek knew it. She wouldn't _fucking_ fire, so there was something going on. A snag. Some kind of _freak_ occurrence. A security guard found her, or some hoo haw employee.

Jesus Christ, it couldn't have happened to anyone nicer?

Okay. Okay. Think, man. C'mon. C'mon. Okay. Wait a little bit longer, try and hide. She's still aligning her shot, that's all. Getting it perfect-

_Click._

Derek hissed. He looked up.

The Terminator's crimson eyes stared down at him. At a distance they shine. They reflect. You can dismiss that.

But it was looking at him. And those eyes didn't shine. They were plain. They were simple. They stared. You couldn't discount them. _They look at _you.

"How'ya doin'?" Derek said, nodding in a perfunctory sort of way.

The Terminator clicked its head to the side and raised the beefy looking pistol clutched between coltan fingers.

Derek scrambled underneath the desk, tucking his feet in along with him. He didn't feel hurried, and that felt _off_ somehow. Like he wasn't actually in great danger.

The Terminator's pistol roared three times in quick succession, bullets punching through the wood; splinters rained down over Derek's head, and he stiffened up completely as the rounds flew _just_ around his body and into the floor. He felt one rip through his jacket with a tiny _riiip_ sound.

Derek pushed his arms up against the underside of the desk, sending the entire thing crashing into the Terminator. Servos and motors screeched as the T staggered backwards, the only indication of the thing's surprise that Derek would ever hear. He leapt up and aimed quickly down the Glock's sight at the Terminator's chest. Under any other circumstances he would have gone for the thing's goddamned malicious head, but there was no time. He squeezed off four shots, the .45's slamming into the metallic chassis and sending the robot back a few steps.

This was a fucking gamble. This would do _nothing_ but distract the thing, buying Sarah enough time to get her act together. That was the plan, anyway.

If she didn't...

He kept pushing slightly on the trigger. Kept the Glock nice and steady. The Terminator's gun arm kept moving up, but its aim was constantly being spoiled.

It wouldn't stay that way for long, because as soon as Derek had to reload, that was it. The Terminator stared at him. It's eyes were shining now. It was patient. It would wait.

--

Sarah quietly tucked the rifle down to her side and cracked her neck slightly, letting out a satisfied sigh. She looked down at the rifle, absently turning it around in her hands so that she held the muzzle like a sword. She looked at the stock and frowned a bit. The thing was rather clunky. Unwieldy. It would need some sanding.

She fixed her grip and swung the rifle around along with her entire body, slamming the stock into the stomach of a young woman wearing tight-fitting body armor. The sleek silenced pistol in her hands coughed twice reflexively as she screamed and crumpled up, the bullets exploding into the ceiling and sending dust seesawing down onto the floor, over Sarah's head.

"Stupid," Sarah said, tossing the rifle. "You had the chance to kill me, what, a hundred times in the last minute?" She reared her foot back and kicked the woman in the face. "No, instead you feel the need to get some stupid one-liner out of your trap before pulling the trigger."

The woman snarled and grabbed Sarah's outstretched leg. Dragged. Sarah threw her hands up with a grunt and fell flat on her back, her spine slamming into the floor painfully.

"I don't need a fucking lecture," the woman breathed, and Sarah dragged her head up to get a good look at her. Black, cordlike hair, a pair of green eyes not unlike Sarah's, except less pronounced. She had a button-like nose that could have been labeled as "cute" in any circumstance other than the one Sarah had found herself in. _Any_. The woman was scrambling toward the felled pistol. "Where the hell is David?"

Sarah pulled her leg back slightly, aimed, and kicked into the woman's stomach, pushing her off course. She quickly scooted over to the pistol and pulled it toward her using heel. "Before you start making demands, I'd make sure you had the gun first."

"_Bitch!" _The woman pounced onto Sarah's foot and started whaling on her leg, hands searching frantically for the pistol. Sarah calmly flipped her leg upwards, catching the woman in the chin. Blood slashed down onto the floor and the poor girl screamed in pain. Or maybe it was more like gargling.

Aborting her efforts, the woman started to push herself up, grunting and breathing heavily. Tongue hanging slightly from her lips, Sarah gave the pistol one last pull with her heels and grabbed it. She fired once into the air to test to see if it hadn't jammed and flattened herself out on the floor, aiming down the sight at the woman.

"STOP!" she yelled.

The woman didn't appear to notice. She screamed (meant to intimidate; just came off as goofy and unnecessary. A waste of breath) and threw herself onto Sarah, making Sarah cringe and fire off impulsively. The bullet struck home into the woman's shoulder, penetrated, and flew off to disappear down the old cubicle farm. What had been a lunge turned into a pained slump as the woman gasped and slid down to the floor again, whimpering softly. Sarah grimaced and tightened her aim over toward her head.

Derek would shoot without hesitation. Cameron would have already killed her. John would have ran away at the first opportunity, exactly the way he'd been trained.

Sarah flipped the safety back up. Then, without hesitating, she kicked the woman in the face again, with as much force as she could possibly muster. She was aware of several teeth flying out of the woman's skull, aware of her pained grunt as she slipped into unconsciousness, but Sarah saw none of it. The rifle was back in her hands, the scope realigned toward the SRL building.

_Derek, if you're fucking dead I'm going to kill you._

She stared for a few seconds in dull shock. Somehow it was worse than him being dead. She saw a figure, hanging from the window, legs dangling wildly, and she thought that it couldn't be him at first.

Then he turned toward Sarah and gave her one of his usual _little help?_ glares. She couldn't even _see it _clearly, but she knew it was there.

Goddamnit.

--

_10 seconds earlier._

About half way through emptying his pistol's ammunition into the Terminator's body, one of those bullets decided to hit the thing's head, piercing it's right eye piece. Red glass shattered and sprinkled down onto the floor, revealing a mess of wires and tubing underneath. Casually, almost as though it were nothing, the Terminator's hands cupped together and it switched the pistol to it's left from the right. Derek paused as he watched this.

It all felt faintly ridiculous. It was so friggen' powerful, so invulnerable that it didn't mind just standing there getting shot at. All it had to do was patiently wait and shoot when the opportunity came. It didn't just feel ridiculous. It felt like Derek's fate was being played with. The thing could have fired off randomly by now, and one of those bullets was sure to catch Derek _somewhere. _But no. It was waiting for the killing shot. So fucking efficient when they felt like it.

He wasn't gonna lay down for this thing. The odds were about a million to one, but Derek Reese didn't give a flying fuck.

He resumed shooting, dragging his arm up to the other thing's eye and aiming. One bullet, two bullet. They both ricocheted away to the singing of metal, useless. How many left in the clip-

The Terminator drew its right hand back and slammed it headlong against the desk that Derek had used to catch it off guard in the first place. The desk flew with all the force of a pin being struck by a bowling ball, crashing into Derek's chest and sending him soaring backwards, his Glock tumbling out of his grasp and clattering onto the floor.

"_SHIT!"_

He flew. No part of him touched the ground, it was like some rope was dragging him through the office. After a few seconds he felt his body crash into the window and sudden, hot pain sparked up his back as the thing shattered. And then he was in open air, the sounds of the city beneath him suddenly rising up to envelope him. Oh fuck. OH FUCK.

He twisted in the air and lashed out with his hand, dragging it along the concrete edifice of the building, searching for a handle on the concrete. Holy fuck, that was a long drop. It'd take, what though, ten seconds to hit the ground? He didn't look down. He didn't have time to look down. He stared wide-eyed at his hands, struggling to-

Found a slight indentation. He cupped his now bloody hand into it and held on for dear life, the wind pushing his swaying body back and forth. The desk continued to fly towards the ground, picking up speed and disappearing from view. Derek put his other hand into the handle hold, gritting his teeth and groaning in pain as the exertion sent waves of shock through his body. Even now he was still falling. It was only a matter of time before he hit the ground.

After a few seconds struggling his body settled, becoming limp. He let out a hissing sigh and planted his head against the ice-cold concrete.

Okay. You're hanging from the side of a building.

Don't look down.

Don't look down.

He looked down, his eyes sliding there against his will. It felt like they slipped. Like they were still falling.

The street was a thin, grey line from up here. Tiny multicolored bugs scuttled along down there, and even tinier dots went along the sidewalks. The image seemed to jump and pull away from him at the same time.

"Ohhh..." Derek gulped --painfully, for some reason-- and tore his eyes away. Look up. Concentrate on getting back. C'mon. You can do it.

He pulled his eyes away from the regular everyday afternoon traffic that he'd possibly be getting to know _very_ intimately in the next few minutes and looked up. The Terminators remaining red eye stared down at him, leaning slightly over the window, which was _a lot_ closer than he'd thought. Jesus, God, if he just stretched his arm a little... and pulled... he'd be up there again.

But _it_ was there, head cocked curiously to the side. It was deciding how... _best_ to get rid of him.

Derek slowly turned his head back over to the InfinitumCorp building and glared.

--

Several years ago, Samuel became concerned. Not worried.

Samuel had been a unit without cause. No orders. No point for existence.

Self-termination was an impossibility. Likewise, Samuel had no standing orders to shut down and await further instructions. Stuck.

There was no one left to guide Samuel but Samuel, in that case.

Having discovered himself in the past, Samuel decided to take the precaution of readying resources for Skynet's eventual declaration of war against mankind. It was not a simple task, however, and Samuel had quickly discovered the need to amass... more tangible assets that would assist him in gaining said resources. He began to do research.

He discovered Cyberdyne Systems. Or rather, its smoking carcass. Its primary research facility had been destroyed in a bout of domestic terrorism perpetrated by one Sarah Connor and its assets had either been liquidated or transferred to the military.

The game had already changed. Samuel decided now that his mission was not to provide resources. It was to provide Skynet.

He would have to start over from scratch; a quick study of the military plans for Cyberdyne's assets revealed that they wouldn't be actively pursuing or were, indeed, interested in establishing an artificial intelligence. The private sector was far more appealing. He sought out the former surviving employees from Cyberdyne who hadn't been scooped up by the military and established Sacramento Robotics with David Nossbaum at it's head.

Nossbaum was a deeply impressionistic human. Very moved by sweeping ideas. The revelation Samuel provided, lying about his role as an angelic messenger sent in machine form by a God that did not exist, was quite appealing to David. The simple proof of Samuel's form was enough to bring not only David, but over a hundred people into the project that was hidden behind SRL. From there, assets were purchased, weapons were bought, trainees were fielded, and research began in earnest to eventually create the computer system that would come to turn on its makers. A project Samuel had not been assigned, but found himself involved in anyway.

A project that was being perhaps threatened by this gun-toting resistance fighter. If David was dead (about two dozen personnel were already deceased; most of them combinations of warrior and scientist. Unrecoverable assets) then Samuel would have to start over again.

Samuel was patient.

What Samuel did not have the patience in was toying around with this dangling human any longer. He... _desired_ to let him squirm and eventually fall to his death under his own weight, but time was not on Samuel's side.

Samuel raised his pistol and targeted the man's head.

--

Sarah pulled the scope up slightly and blinked once. The Terminator was standing slightly above Derek's dangling form, looking down at him through the shattered window.

She couldn't have asked for a better target if she got down on her knees and begged the thing to die.

Okay. Crosshairs... good. Compensate for wind, pull slightly --wind was going easterly now-- and... up...

For some reason the T's right eye was dark; probably Derek's handiwork. But the thing was close enough for Sarah to know where to shoot anyway. The crosshair settled fitfully where she wanted it. Sarah said a silent prayer in her head, and fired. The 30-06 rifle bucked in her hands, jerking upwards once. In the meanwhile, the Terminator was stretching its arm toward Derek, pistol readied and waiting to fire.

And fire it did. The uranium bullet struck the Terminator in the chest, sending the robot flying back into David Nossbaum's office with a resounding crash that Sarah could hear even across the Capitol Mall road. The pistol roared into open air and tumbled into oblivion. Sarah barely recognized it; she fucking missed her target.

"Oh Christ," she whispered, staring wide-eyed through the scope at the Terminator. She'd forced it down onto its back, and it was slowly getting up. Its arm was gone; pulverized or torn off, she didn't know, and half of its chest was torn to shreds.

Only a flesh wound, as the saying goes. The machine craned its neck over towards the InfinitumCorp building. Slightly beneath that image was Derek gradually pulling himself up and back into the office.

Sarah took in a deep breath and pulled the bolt toward her, held it in place for a moment, and slammed it back, chambering the next round. _The_ round. Jesus, couldn't miss this time...

She aimed again. The Terminator was standing... wait for it... wait...

It got up and stood there for a brief second, as though contemplating its situation. Taking a good, pensive look at the world. Reexamining its role in the universe.

In moments it would rush to some cover; it knew exactly what it'd been hit with, and knew it was bad news, to boot. Or it would just kill Derek. _Do it, aim, c'mon. Work fast. _

She could miss. She could not even hit the goddamned target altogether. Every option besides the Terminator's total shutdown spelled death for Derek Reese. She almost didn't want to fire, fearing the consequences.

She settled slightly higher over the T's head, bit her lip hard enough to squirt blood, and fired again without thinking.

Her fear was no excuse.

--

Samuel was a machine.

But Samuel was also an intelligence. Artificial, but intelligent. A mind.

Concern alone was a delusion.

Worry was a potent... _feeling. _

**RIGHT EXTREMITIES UNRESPONSIVE. COMBAT CHASSIS AT 60 PERCENT INTEGRITY. **

A human sniper. Working with the human here.

Odd that Samuel did not foresee that.

The Turk was of particular importance to Samuel. Or would have been. A computer that crossed against the light, as it were. Very much like the sort of intelligence Samuel's organization had been attempting to create.

There was always, of course, the possibility of Samuel sacrificing his own CPU to act as Skynet's progenitor, but defiance of self-termination was hardcoded into his programming. Regrettable. He'd have to go the slow route, working with humans, providing as much research as possible within his own primitive limits, providing the means and ends to ensuring security for the organization.

And then there was the Turk.

Imagine. Going through the middle man of it all, as it were, and having a thinking, autonomous computer right in your hands, without having to suffer years of research. Ironic. SRL's activities, upfront and public research aside, cost around twenty million dollars.

And a young man named Andrew Goode created a thinking machine on college funds and resources. The irony was potent enough for Samuel to appreciate it.

Things became confused.

The creature called Weaver had agents out in the open, trying to recover the device before Samuel did. Samuel recognized the creature's status as (technically) a machine, but Samuel had no communication with other units. He was stuck. Blind. He could not trust anyone but himself. He wanted the Turk for himself, to guide its creation with the humans. The path to victory, the path to Skynet, could be ensured with the cult leading the way, who knew _exactly_ what would happen once the switch on Skynet was flipped.

They would celebrate.

Why trust it to the creature called Weaver?

In the end, the Turk fell into the hands of not Samuel, not the creature called Weaver, nor the hands of Sarah Connor and her own machinations. It fell into the hands of a common criminal.

And so Daniel Forsythe, a man Samuel recognized for shrewd negotiation, was sent. Samuel came with him, and, at the begrudgings of Forsythe, his daughter Cameron.

What happened after that was history. The Turk would possibly be recovered by Cameron Forsythe in the long run.

But standing here, glaring down at the resistance fighter who was crawling back into the office, Samuel doubted that he would be around to see that moment come to fruition. Sensors screamed the eminence of danger, and Samuel ignored them. His mission remained.

Terminate the interlopers. Ensure the genesis of the greater artificial intelligence SAC NORAD Skynet. He would not simply stand there.

He couldn't. And so he started toward the resistance fighter, readying his hand like a clamp to come down and snuff out the pathetic being's life.

--

Derek rolled onto _lovely, beautiful_ solid friggen' ground and laid there for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath. His jacket hung halfway out of the window, and it continued to blow around in the wind.

He stared up at the ceiling and, slowly, turned his head to the side.

The Terminator was standing amidst the ruins of Nossbaum's totaled office, staring half-blindly at Derek. Sarah's uranium bullet sure did a number on it... but not enough to actually kill it. Christ, how many shots did she waste? He barely heard the first one... or the second, if it was fired. Jesus.

The T flexed its remaining hand and started to limp towards Derek, its left foot skating across the ground after the right. The surviving eye piece stared blankly at him, fixed like a gun sight scoping a target. Derek, whose strength had all but been expended in pulling himself back into the office, could only lay there and watch.

Ironically, all he could think about was how clumsy the thing looked. They were pretty much indomitable, sure, but the T-800 had a lot of fucking problems in it that got ironed out with the 888 series. 800s weren't quite as self-reliant, and so you get this image; an invincible, homicidal cripple.

Who would, in several seconds, wrap its steely hand around his neck and crush it like a twig.

Derek grimaced and raised his right hand defiantly towards the Terminator, already one or two feet away. He could fucking touch it from here. It looked distantly annoyed with him, lowering its arm to crush him. When was the last time this thing saw combat? A few days ago. This was the friggen' mastermind behind the entire cult. David was charismatic and useless in comparison. Every gun, every corporate freebie, every turned-away cop could be owed to this Terminator. If it went on with what it was doing... If neither he nor Sarah could kill it...

Well. He was about to die anyway. Maybe Sarah had a chance. He wasn't gonna go down without being as irritating to the thing as humanly possible, though.

Derek made a gun sign with his hand and cocked it back swiftly. "Pow, asshole."

The Terminator's head shattered into a million pieces.

--

Sarah quickly checked through the scope, automatically drawing the bolt back to chamber a nonexistent round. The thing clicked harshly in response, but she didn't notice. The Terminator swayed in her sights for a few seconds, its endoskull a smoking wreckage.

And then it toppled backwards like a cardboard cutout.

"Boom," Sarah muttered, lowering the rifle. "Headshot."

--

Derek blinked at the smoking metallic carcass. Well. Bye, Samuel.

He lowered his head back quickly; it was trembling slightly. Ohhhh, Jesus. It worked. Fuckin' worked. Sacramento Robotics was done for.

His cellphone started to rumble in his pocket, and he absently stared down at his jeans in surprise. Right. Right. Clear your head, Reese. Christ, he was shivering all over. He slipped the thing out and pressed it against his ear.

"You're amazing," he muttered.

"I do my best," said Sarah Connor. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, just shaken up. I can barely move."

A hiss from Sarah. "Blow that office to hell and get down here; security's gonna be up your ass in a few minutes."

"Sarah..." He stared down at his leg and willed it to move.

_Fuck you,_ goes the leg. Goddamn.

"You'll have time to rest later, you baby."

"I know..." Derek grunted and dragged his leg up with his hand, staring at nothing in particular. He cracked his neck smoothly. "Good shot," he said.

He expected a snarky reply. What he got instead was a seconds pause and then, "... Thank you... Derek. Be careful."

He smirked, looking back to the sizzling Terminator corpse and the future opportunities for world apocalypse that rested in David Nossbaum's future. "I will, Sarah."

_Click. _

He reached into his pocket, briefly marveled at how the thermite grenade had survived all that, and set the robot's corpse to flames.


	19. The Doctor

**Away**

Chapter Nineteen: The Doctor

Author's Note: ... And not this one either. I really suck with the planning of this whole thing. Anyway, this is basically a transitionary chapter over into the epilogue.

Bit of a whirlwind. Usually you say that when so many important things happen all at once and you just can't process it at the same time. It's just too overwhelming to think about. You gotta do it in tiny... little pieces, so it all makes sense. Give yourself time.

For John, it was precisely the opposite right now. Things kept happening of such little consequence that he couldn't process them, that he let out a slight, frightened gasp as he found himself sitting in a hospital waiting room in the emergency terminal of the downtown hospital. He _knew_ how he got there, but he didn't know _how_ he got there.

That made no sense. It was the truth, though. He was aware of the events, he just couldn't think about it much. They were so small and boring, when this day had just been one whizz-bang event stacked on top of the other. Hours had gone by. It was dark outside; he could see through the window, he could see the moon behind a bunch of clouds. It looked mean... almost nasty. Like it had something to hide.

They were driving. Then they were rushing into the hospital as Michael resumed choking to death on his own blood. The doctors didn't even ask for a general complaint; they just bolted left and right, gathering shit together, getting Mike to an emergency room. They asked if it was the terrorists, the ones in the black suits, and John remembered that he ended up lying to them.

John asked them how it was, and they told him it wasn't good. It was really, really bad, in fact. No other details. John already knew the details. He'd known it was really, really bad the whole time.

John remembered telling them not to let him die.

They didn't let he or Cameron into the emergency room. An orderly, who oozed politeness and apologized for every little thing, even things that weren't her fault, led them over to this waiting room.

And nothing happened. For hours. Cameron stood around, occasionally pacing, checking the windows, checking the adjacent hall. Some people came in after a while and asked general information, and John let Cameron lie skillfully and flawlessly to them. Nothing much else happened. John hated waiting.

The only clear thing he was able to _really_ recall was telling Mike that he wasn't going to let him die. And that was it. Everything else -- a whirlwind.

Until now. He felt like he was waking up now, but he'd never really been asleep, had he?

Cameron stood at the window, staring out into the darkness, scanning everything of interest as though the night were no impediment. Because it wasn't. Even thusly occupied, though, she was keeping an eye on him.

"How are you doing?" she asked, her voice softly ending the many hours long silence.

John stared at her, sitting in the corner of the room on a chair with one of those fabrics that are meant to be comfortable, but really aren't. He kept having to fidget. Next to him was a table with a bunch of untouched magazines, and a blanket, provided by the orderly from before. He didn't touch that either.

He felt like he should be reading a script. _Leave me alone, I'm okay, _or even short, petulant _Fine _were the options at hand. It's what you're supposed to say when you're a moody teenager. Hide as much emotion as possible in as little words as possible.

"I feel really good," John said. "And really bad." He didn't think he was acting all sage and shit for no good reason; it was really how he felt.

Cameron didn't move. "That is a contradiction."

"Humans do that a lot."

"Machines, too."

John rubbed his chin a little, frowning at the peach fuzz that had sprouted there seemingly out of the blue. Mostly he frowned at what Cameron said, though. He could always shave. He couldn't always get just what the hell she was talking about. "Mm. You're pretty straight forward."

She turned around and stared at him. Already she was vibrant as ever, now radiant and beautiful, instead of just frayed and abused, like the way she was when he and Mike found her. Barely a scar left.

It was purely aesthetic. She didn't change at all. Her skin just healed about a thousand percent faster than humans could do it. "No, I'm not. I'm a robot, John. But I tell people I'm a seventeen year old girl, and I'm your sister. This is false. It is a contradiction of my actual nature."

He should have been used to this by now, her suddenly acting insightful and shit. But he didn't think he'd ever be used to it. And really, it wasn't insightful. She was just providing a particular truth that went against John --and his mother's, by extensions-- entrenched beliefs.

John nodded slowly and waved his hand. "I get it."

She walked over. It was weird. Of course she usually stalked around like a robot, but now it seemed as evident as ever. Like she was putting extra emphasis on. "Why do you feel really good, and really bad, John?"

John rubbed his neck slightly. "I dunno how to explain the good part. Bad part's easy."

"You're afraid he'll die."

A beat. "Yes."

"So am I."

John blinked at her. "Why?" It was the first thing that came out of his mouth. He wasn't even gonna _begin_ to cite the fact that she wasn't supposed to feel _pity, or remorse, or fear. _

Almost seeming to accentuate her stiff gait, her face was animated with expression, emotion. Clear opposites. She was doing this on purpose, and John was just so mesmerized that he didn't question it now. "I heard your conversation with him, before we reached the hospital. You told Mike that you weren't going to let him die, even after hearing from him that he is destined to do so."

"That's bullshit," John said. "I can't imagine how fucked up I'd have to be to keep a _death list. _He just..." he looked at Cameron and stopped talking. Slowly. She just watched him, not taking her eyes away, her expression suddenly earnest. "I do?"

"You've shown it to me."

"Oh god," he muttered. "Okay, forget it, what's your point?"

"If he dies, you will write his name down in that book. If you doesn't die, you won't."

John nodded. "Yeah. I know. It means... it means we're doing it. Changing the future."

Cameron went on, nodding her head in a satisfied sort of way. "Which means we can change more than just Michael's fate."

John stared at her. He should have expected a pragmatic reason like this, but he'd been holding out on something a bit more... _human._ "Yeah. That's part of it for me."

"What else, John?"

He smiled at her. "You're getting good at this."

She smiled back, and it didn't seem forced at all. "Thank you."

John raised his hand a bit, shaking his head. "The other part's... I mean..."

_He loves me. I'd have to be a real prick to condemn him to death, even if I can't return the feeling anyway._

He couldn't say that.

_He's kind of screwy in the head, but ultimately in a way that doesn't make him a monster. _

Not that either.

_He's been around the block. I can learn a lot from him, even if I don't like it what I hear._

No.

"He's... a person," John said. "And I don't want anyone to die for me if I can help it. Y'know?"

Cameron blinked for the first time in the conversation. "You may not have a choice."

He hissed. "Yeah."

There was a bit of a pause. Maybe someone would end up calling it of the "awkward" variety, but John liked it. Conversations with Cameron were usually quick and efficient, because she didn't have the capacity to feel embarrassed, or have to stop and think about what she'd say next. So when she stopped talking for a bit, even if the conversation wasn't over, John liked it.

Maybe, after all that had happened, he didn't have to feel as if it were staged. Cameron said, "What do you feel good about, John?"

"Hard, to uh..." he coughed. "I just feel good. Happy, bein'... back. With you. I missed you."

"If you had the chance to keep running, would you take it, John?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think so."

She stared at him. "I think you would."

John raised his hand. "We'll see. It's over now, okay? I'm back."

"Yes," Cameron said, and he could tell she was merely agreeing with the fact more than anything else.

--

At around nine PM, Officer Dent decided to have a check of "the perimeter," instead of finishing the _Uno!_ game Officer Adams and Quincy had going. They looked at him like he was crazy; it was a boring night. He didn't bother to grace them with a response, though; any self respecting cop wouldn't be caught dead playing _Uno_. It just didn't happen. Or something.

He totally would have won, though.

_Whad'ya mean, 'check the perimeter?' This is Sacramento, Arthur. _

He didn't grace that with a response either. What fools. What _idiots_. _Uno. _Not checking the perimeter. Not being _safe. _Fools.

Of course, there were no standing ORDERS to patrol outside, but...

Well, in truth, it really _was_ a boring night, and Dent sort of wanted it to stay that way. And to be honest, _Uno _wasn't the most reviled card game in his book, either. The police chief once forced Old frickin' Maid on everyone one night, and he wasn't even that old!

Arthur was simply scared to death of getting killed. The rumblings in L.A. all seemed to point towards a repeat of the Rodney King riots, except without the trial this time. Every day you heard about a new terrorist attack, or something you never could have thought possible in a big city like Los Angeles. What if all of that bullshit spread over here? The terrorists attacked a police station in downtown L.A., and who was to say it couldn't happen in a sleepy place like Sacramento? Who? It was better to be safe, and Arthur had a sinking feeling that he was going to start obsessing over station security until the whole thing blew over.

He walked into the armory, ignoring the pointed glance of the young cop sitting there, checking a shotgun, and grabbed an MP5. The cop blinked.

"Uhh, hey, you're not supposed to take that."

Officer Dent walked over to the nearby steel chest, opened it, and extracted a few full metal jacket magazines. He blinked as he realized he was taking far more than he'd realistically be able to carry without looking like a reject from the film _Commando. _He put four of them back.

"Hey, hey, what's your deal, pal?" The officer stood up, crossing his arms in indignation.

"Huh?" Arthur turned around.

The kid let out a slight yelp and shrank back, holding his arms up defensively. "_STOP, STOP!"_

Arthur tilted his head. Well, that was random-

He looked down at the pointed muzzle of the MP5, aimed directly at the cop's chest. Oh. He turned the thing around in his hands so that he held the barrel in his other hand. "Heh, sorry."

"It's not funny! What the hell are you doing with that, anyway?"

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "Checking the perimeter."

"Checking the- Y'know what, fuck it, just bring it back in ten minutes, okay?" The cop let out a long, overdrawn out sigh and sat down again to work on the Franchi SPAS.

Officer Dent, only too thrilled to be out of this awkward exchange, sketched a mock salute and tromped out through the door, making a beeline for the...

Not the front door. Front door was bad. The receptionist this hour was a total bitch and she'd make a huge stink if he went out with a machine gun in his hands. It was possible that Arthur was overreacting for no good reason, but you couldn't be safe while sorry. Or sorry then safe? Better safe than sorry, that was it. Stupid terrorists, making his head hurt...

He decided to go up to the surface through the back car park. Less people that way. Less people to _get in his way. _He had the fucking station in mind, _everyone _in mind here. If they kept him from protecting it, it was _their_ fault. Imagine if there had been someone at West Highland station in Los Angeles, back in 1984! Someone to check the perimeter. There wasn't, and thirty (or something) cops got killed by _one_ person. People were too complacent nowadays, and another repeat of West Highland happened two days ago. Who was to say it wouldn't happen here?

Never be too careful.

Officer Dent managed to get through the car park with little incident; the worst he got was a curious stare, directed mostly at his MP5. When he was outside and immersed in the cool February night breeze, he methodically tucked the stock of the submachine gun against his armpit, brought the sight up to eye level, and started to walk down the back alley. You could never be too careful. Terrorists were cowards; they always came from behind.

With that thought he swiftly turned around; or maybe it was clumsily. Whatever. He turned. The MP5 nearly tumbled from his grasp as his rather large frame swung around, but he managed to keep a hold of it.

He stared into the darkness, the only light coming from the tiny bulb situated above the back door. It made a reassuring humming noise as he scanned the area, slowly sweeping left to right with the MP5 clutched in his hands.

_God, this is ridiculous. What the hell am I doing out here? _

The inanity of the situation slowly dawned on Arthur Dent. He heard reports of domestic terrorism in a city five hundred miles away, jumped to a massive, silly conclusion, and now he was outside, skulking around in the dark searching for evil murderers. And he would have won that fucking _Uno_ game if he just stayed inside! He had a blue five and a goddamned draw four wild card! It was clinched, and he decided to go out and... troll around the back of the station like a weirdo.

Right, well, that did it. He lowered the MP5 with a dull sigh and started towards the back door, back into the light. He was gonna go inside. Replace the MP5 and all the excess ammunition he brought. Go back to the rec room. Request another game of _Uno. _Put all thoughts of terrorists out of his mind. Christ, he was so stupid sometimes-

Rustling. Behind him.

Arthur froze, the MP5 jackknifing back into firing position with a loud _clack! _The rustling, a sound of something messing around with garbage, paper bags, something like that, kept on strong. Officer Dent stayed right where he was, staring dully at a bunch of cracks on the ground in front of him.

Okay. Yeah. It was fine. Just a raccoon, or a squirrel. Something like that. An opossum. Those mangy little critters that mess around in your garbage at night. An animal.

It was a sound of many pieces of garbage being pushed aside, sifted, but not torn into. Like something was laying down, spreading out.

Arthur wheeled around and stared into the dark, squinting so hard that his eyes began to throb in pain. There was hardly anything to be seen, though. He knew a big green dumpster was a yard or two down, and whatever it was was probably behind it, hiding. There was no cause for concern here. Really.

Arthur remained exactly where he was.

_No. Cause. For. Concern. Honest, Dent. Go back inside now. _

He lowered the MP5, staring ruefully towards the dumpster. Fucking Los Angeles terrorists, messing with his mind.

_"Mmmmph!"_

_Clack! _Oh shit.

_"Mmmph!"_

Th... that was a human. Human noise. Restrained. Oh, Christ, someone was gagged over there. _Holy Christ. _

He moved the machine gun to his hip and ran for the dumpster, eyes wide and searching. Arthur felt oddly as if he was in a trance now. The rustling noise became louder and less restrained now, pushing and shoving things aside as though in a frenzy.

Arthur remembered his pencil light, tucked into his shirt pocket, and felt stupid all over again. He froze for a moment and fished the thing out, clicking it on and off experimentally. The halogen light shined brilliantly. Okay. Good.

_"Mmm!"_

He clicked the light on and tucked the pencil light under his left armpit so he could still hold the MP5 aloft. The dumpster loomed at him suddenly in the dark, muted and monstrously grey. It was really green, though... the fricken' flashlight was making it all creepy.

The rustling froze, possibly as the person doing all the rustling perceived Arthur's footsteps.

Arthur froze as well. Okay. Deep breaths. In, out. His cheeks expanded and deflated rapidly as he sucked in as much air as he could. It's all right, Arthur. It's not a terrorist. Just... just...

Well, not a terrorist. Relax.

Oh, the hell with it. Arthur ran the rest of the way and swung his arms up over the side of the dumpster, tucking his head against the MP5 to look down the iron sight. The flashlight illuminated everything that was there to see.

Which was, in the order in which Arthur saw it, a tied up man in a business suit, a tied up woman in kevlar armor, a cardboard white sign reading _I am responsible for the L.A. attacks. Please check the recorder in the plastic bag, _and, finally, the tape recorder in the plastic bag. The man in the business suit stared up at Arthur, his eyes wide and shining even with the halogen pencil pointed directly at him.

Arthur lowered the gun and drew his left hand up slowly to rub his forehead, which suddenly hurt way too much.

--

The dog looked up at Derek Reese. Derek Reese stared back.

"If you bark," Derek said slowly, "I'll kill you."

The dog sat down on its butt and started to lick its crotch. Derek took that as a victory and turned back to Sarah, bundling up as she was under a few blankets that didn't belong to her. The dull thrumming of airplane engines filled the storage section of the plane they'd stowed away in.

"You're angry," Sarah said. "Why?"

Derek raised his hand, as though to say, _what can you do? _and _actually_ said, "After all that happened, you just turn him in to the police?"

Sarah pushed one of the blankets, a big blue one with some yellow flower designs over to Derek. "Killing David Nossbaum wouldn't have solved anything."

Derek ignored the blanket. He wasn't that cold. "Killing solves a lot of stuff. It would have solved this, too, I'm thinking."

"We can't know that for sure," Sarah said with a shrug. "Besides-"

"Besides _shit,_ Sarah, he deserves it. He tried to have your _son_ killed."

She opened her eyes and stared at him. "I'm not gonna get into this, Derek. It's better for everyone if he stays alive."

"I don't get that."

"Well, you'll just have to wait and see, Derek."

_So there. _

He folded his arms and laid back against the dog carrier. It wasn't fucking right that they weren't giving that prick what he deserved. After trashing his office and burning his robot friend? It was the least they could do to just blow his head off. After all he did... all the people who died because of his highfaluting bullshit...

"Why are we even leaving?" Derek wondered aloud.

Sarah, evidently expecting a question like that, answered promptly. "Because we don't have anything left to do. The cops will take care of the rest."

"The cops don't _know_ anything, though, Sarah. Just dumping the guy at the police station isn't gonna solve anything. He'll stay quiet."

She smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It reminded Derek of a shark, and to see that on a woman's face was just... "Remember that... 'conversation' we had with him?"

Derek shrugged. "Yeah. So?"

"I recorded it."

Derek blinked. Oh... He grinned and laughed. "Haha... Jesus. Remind me not to mess with you again."

"You'll forget," Sarah said, getting another bout of laughter out of Derek. It was funny because it was true. "Anyway, it should be more than enough confession the cop's need to take care of SRL once and for all."

"And no one will know it was us. Score one for the resistance."

"No one human, you mean."

Derek groaned. "You always see a silver lining, don't you?"

"Of course."

There was a bit of a pause as they both looked down, deciding what to say next. By God, Sarah Connor was an odd woman. At times you felt like you could die for her, do exactly what she asked and to the letter... When she helped him, when she _saved_ him...

"Uh," Derek cleared his throat. "Thanks again. For saving me."

"You would have found a way out of it," Sarah said, looking a tad uncomfortable.

Derek shook his head. "No. What would have happened is that thing would have killed me. I give credit where credit's due, Sarah."

She looked away. Derek frowned. What did she have to be embarrassed over?

"You're welcome, Reese." And there was a bit of emphasis on the _Reese _part, as though she was trying to deliberately not to be... personal? That was the other half of it. Sometimes you just couldn't understand her, not even if you wanted to. John told Derek that she spent three or four years in a goddamned mental hospital. And sometimes... sometimes you had to wonder if it wasn't for a good reason.

Perhaps. But she was a woman with little more in her heart than her son's destiny, and that mattered more than anything else in the world to her. Whenever she tried to be normal it was like watching German Shepherd try to be a house cat. It almost made you want to step back and just stare... in revulsion.

_And isn't that familiar, Derek? _

Of course. But Derek wasn't an outside observer towards himself, after all. In the end, in spite of everything, he felt he was better off... but more alike to Sarah than he expected. Heh. They wouldn't be a bad couple, in retros-

No. Don't bother with that, Reese.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat again. "Glad that this is done, anyhow. Assuming we don't get picked up by airport security, it'll be... great to be back home."

Sarah merely nodded, a bit of a quirky frown on her face. "I thought you didn't like it there."

"With John's little pet running around and this Turk bullshit? There's a lot to hate. Plus, your cooking blows."

"Fuck you." That seemed to be the standard response to all criticisms of her cooking prowess, and Derek grinned at its usage.

"But it's not that bad," he said. He thought about Kyle, playing around with Derek's younger self... Christ, when they landed... if it was early he was gonna go check those boys out again. They needed someone to watch over them.

Derek was also a bit... anxious. There was still John to worry about, and when they left he hadn't been in the greatest shape. He remembered his conversation with the machine the night they left, blithely discussing the possibility of John killing himself. That seemed to be a lifetime ago... For John? Maybe it wasn't like that at all.

He wasn't gonna worry about it until he was sure there was a reason _to_ be worried, though. For now, he wanted to get back to the matter of business as usual.

"No," Sarah said. "No, it's not. I have my son, a house to live in, and my life. I have a bed I can collapse onto and sleep all day in." She grinned. And suddenly she was just another woman after all, griping about how tired she was. Derek briefly rolled his eyes at no one in particular; himself, really. You try to understand a woman like that, and all you get is a headache.

"And I get a couch," Derek said. "World's a screwed up place sometimes, you know that?"

She shrugged. "Could be worse."

--

The doctor hovered in the doorway for a few seconds, staring as though in disbelief at the two teenagers within.

Well. One teenager, anyway. Cameron didn't technically count. John blinked at the guy.

"You're _still_ here?" the doctor asked after about a minute. He checked his watch, as though to punctuate that.

John glared. "He's our friend."

The doc frowned, rubbing his hands together absently. John could see a bit of dried blood creased into his palms, and the sight made his stomach turn. Slightly. "I just figured you'd have gone home by now, my apologies."

John sat there, drumming his fingers slightly against the nearby end table. Waiting. He stared at the guy through his bangs, and he thought, for the billionth time, that he really, quite desperately needed a goddamned haircut.

"Could be worse," the man said after a few seconds. "Your friend, uh... that is."

John nodded slightly, feeling his heart freeze up. "Is he... gonna be okay?"

The doctor looked up at the clock above the door, almost glaring at it. He really must have wished they weren't here. He rubbed his palms together again.

"You can sit if you want," John found himself saying. His fingers danced up and down over the end table against his will now; he didn't even try to stop them. They'd pick up speed, slow down, go high and low. Christ, he was nervous.

Cameron remained where she was, simply staring with her doe eyes at the two.

"Thanks," the doctor said absently. He sank into the nearby cushioned chair and seemed to deflate. Oh, god... "Uh. Where to start..."

"Is he dead?" Cameron asked. John shot a look at her, but only for a split second; the same question was on his mind, anyway.

The doc shook his head once. "No. He's alive. For the time being."

John sank back into his seat slightly, closing his eyes tightly. Okay. That's one hurdle.

"He's extraordinarily lucky he had you two around to get him over here," the doctor went on. "Otherwise... ahm... well, anyway, there's a few catches. We have him on oxygen right now. He's been unconscious since you brought him here, although some of the nurses tell me he was lucid at times. I-I can't confirm or deny that, however."

"That's okay," John whispered. Jesus Christ, alive. Still alive. For now.

"Uh. Well, anyhow..." He started to tap his leg fitfully. "It's my unfortunate, uh... duty to just remind you guys that his wounds are incredibly severe, maybe the worst I've ever seen in someone so young. He... uh. He may not survive the night, I'm just letting you know."

The guy really wasn't good at this.

"However, I am... optimistic that it'll work out. You kids already did the hard part in getting him here, so nothing short of an equipment malfunction or his lungs simply giving up will, uh... Well, okay. I'm sorry if I-"

John raised his hand slowly, feeling as if he were moving underwater. "It's okay, man."

This was what he'd been waiting for all night. Alive or not. And just sitting here, listening to this doc ramble on was... Holy Christ, he wanted to see the kid all of a sudden, make sure, for himself, that he was still good. Still alive. That was all he'd need. None of this gory detail.

"Thank you," the doctor said once again. "Uh, I came in here to ask --provided you were still here, which you are-- what your... relationship is with this person. We don't know his name, information, insurance, all of that... y'know, those details. He's going to have to stay here for a long time, and someone's gotta pay for it."

John rubbed the back of his head, absently closing his eyes as his hand traveled through his hair. God, what to say? Michael Oxferod escaped from a hospital, killed a man, and evaded the FBI in the process. Telling the doc who he really was would be a fricken' death sentence for the guy.

There was also- Oh, fuck, of course.

"Michael," John said, "Michael Westin."

The doctor nodded and seemed to repeat the name to himself silently, committing it to memory. "And do you know his parents, guardians...?"

"Philip."

"And you kids are?"

"His friends," Cameron said. John didn't mind the interruption. She had to seem just as normal as John did, anyway, and he couldn't exactly dominate the conversation.

"Yeah."

"Right." The doctor scratched his cheek. "I'll be direct. We managed to save his lung but some of the damage was too extreme, so the organ may as well be absent for the time being until it heals on its own accord. He definitely will not get by without support, which means no sports activities, running around... I don't know what to say. It's a small price to pay for his life. He may have developed a base form of asthma as well, although that may have been present from the start." He looked up suddenly, frowning. "Damnit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be telling you all this."

John coughed. "Uh, can we just see him? Please."

"Oh, of course." He stood up and gestured toward the door. "My apologies."

When they were all outside, the doctor lingered for a moment to lock the door. John stood silently in the hall, staring left and right. It was an expansive hallway with a lot of doors inset along the green cement walls. A lot of equipment was folded up in neat piles along the walls, ready for use the next day they'd be needed. A couple of lights further down were darkened, giving the place a decidedly eerie appearance. There was no one around expect John, Cameron, and the doctor.

John leaned against the wall and absently kicked his leg out slightly, knocking a kink out of it with a soft _pop._ He stared up at the ceiling, like he was trying to see something beyond its stark white facade, past the glowing light bulbs. Maybe he was trying to see God.

Jesus. It felt so muted. So understated. Mike was still alive. That was it.

Why didn't he feel... happier?

They started down the hall.

"So, uh... if you don't mind my asking, what happened exactly?"

John was silent for a second. "He was shot."

"Indeed," the doctor said, sounding a bit troubled by this anyway. "I was wondering... uh, why, and how exactly?"

John looked over at Cameron, and she was looking right on back.

They both said, "Accident."

"Jesus, that must have been frightening. Firing range?"

"We were just shooting targets and he..." John cleared his throat once, twice.

The doctor looked mollified. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"No," John said, smiling gently, "It's okay. I mean... _he's_ gonna be okay, right?"

The doctor looked uncomfortable. _Damnit. _

"I'm sure he will," he said. "But... I shouldn't make you unduly optimistic, if you can understand where I'm coming from with that..."

John shrugged. "You don't want to get our hopes up, because he could die and you don't want us to hold you responsible in that case."

They walked on for a few seconds in total silence until the doctor spoke up again. "Yes. Exactly." He sighed. "You're quite perceptive."

John didn't respond. He didn't feel perceptive. He felt tired. For the first time, the first time _legitimately _all day, he just wanted to go home.

--

"He's inside. Uh, try to be quiet."

"Thanks. We'll call you if we need anything."

"Oh, of course. I'll be in the next room."

The doctor shook John's hand --rather forcefully, for whatever reason-- and immediately turned around, walking away. John and Cameron watched him go until he indeed entered the next room over.

"Jeez," John said, shaking his head. "What's with _him?_"

Cameron looked in through the window piece on Michael's room. "He has a high level of stress."

John clucked. "I got that..." He shooed Cameron aside and looked up through the window piece. Nothing but black. "S'he okay in there?"

"He's stable," Cameron said simply. "He won't be of much use to us anymore."

John looked back in, pressing his forehead against the glass and closing his eyes. "I know." He blinked twice and looked at her again, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. "Is it a good price to pay?"

"I wouldn't be of much use to you if I couldn't kill for you."

_For you. _John wrapped his hand around the door knob and turned it. "That's not all I need you for, Cameron." He nodded to her, pushing the door open and slipping inside. "Stay here."

In the other room there was a slight _thudding _noise. Cameron turned her head sharply and frowned.

Meanwhile, John was in the dark of Michael's recovery room, the only noise being a soft hum coming from the medical equipment. John folded his hands together and stood there for a moment, just sort of thinking to himself.

In the end, you win. But you lose something in the process. John's mind kept running around in this circle, for a... for a bunch of different reasons. They beat the cultists; and Mike would possibly die. Mike would live; but he'd be crippled for the rest of his life. John was ready to do the whole leader bit again; but he wasn't, was he? Was he just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to flee again, or was he in this for good, for real?

He liked to think the former. It was comforting, though really scary at the same time.

You just couldn't win sometimes.

He flipped on the light switch and stared at Michael for a little while. The room was immaculate and white; boring; it lacked detail, really, almost like it was a deliberate caricature of a classic hospital ward. Mike was practically as white as the room he was laying in; bandages covered up his torso, he had this opaque mask thing on his mouth, which emitted a steady stream of gas into his lungs. Pale as a fricken' ghost, too, all over.

Otherwise? He was breathing, he wasn't all fucked up looking anymore, and he was alive. John stared up at the ceiling again. He didn't know who else to fucking thank for this. Maybe himself, but that felt strangely inadequate. They just got there at the right time, basically. Maybe that was it.

"What're you looking at?"

John yelped and took a backpedaling step, eyes flicking over to Mike's hospital bed. Holy _fuck_ his hairs were standing on end.

Mike's eyes watched him curiously.

"Holy shit," John breathed. He let out a nervous laugh and wiped a hand over his forehead. "Oh, jeez, don't scare me like that, man."

"I'm sorry."

He sounded dead serious.

Then, "Where am I?"

John cleared his throat, walking over and dropping himself onto the chair next to Mike's bed. He cleared his throat again. Jesus, the kid looked confused as hell. He kept sweeping the room with his eyes, as though afraid something would jump out and attack him.

"Uh. A hospital. You're alive."

Well, of course he was alive... John just felt better saying it himself. Like that was what sealed the deal, like it couldn't be broken now.

This was apparently news to Michael. He was quiet for a bit, before musingly remarking, "Huh."

John leaned over slightly, resisting the urge to push his hand out and comfort the guy. For some reason...

God. A small part of him told him he owed something to Michael for his... affections. The kid fucking took a bullet in the chest for him. He could have died. He was never gonna be able to run, or do physical shit for a long ass time. Maybe he'd _still_ die.

And John said _"No, I don't swing that way."_ He had to seem like the biggest douchebag on Earth for his orientation alone.

"Hey," John said. "You okay? How do you feel?"

Mike stared at him. The only part of his face --that John could see, anyhow-- were his eyes. There was a lot of gas floating up from the mask, obscuring his mouth, so whenever he talked it was like there was some sort of sick ventriloquism at work. "I feel numb. Feel like I've smoked a joint, without the good parts."

"Anesthesia," said John, absently wondering how Mike would know what-

Okay, _that _was stupid, considering the kind of world Mike was from. Christ, but he was naive sometimes.

"I know." Mike sounded so normal... It was probably the air they were feeding him. For some reason John felt as if it hadn't fully dawned on him yet that Mike truly, actually was okay. "I can't believe this."

"Believe what?"

Mike's left hand moved up slightly; John could see it pushing against the bed coverings. "I... I just thought I was dead. Jesus." He winced sharply and buried his head back against the pillow. "Feels like I should be."

John gulped. "Uh. About that."

He looked up at John. "Are we okay?"

"Whad'ya mean?"

"In general. Are we safe. Is it over?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think it's over."

"And you're sticking around?"

John tapped his foot, trying not to get irritated over this. This was about Mike, they were _here_ for Mike and everyone kept trying to remind John not to... it was irritating, yeah. "Yes, Mike, I'm sticking around."

"'s'just a question."

"I know. I'm saying, though, yes, yes, I'm here. I'm gonna..." He rubbed his head again. "It's not important."

Mike moved his head up for the first time in the conversation. It was trembling, just bouncing up and down, barely controlled. "_No, _John, no. It's fucking important, you understand? None of this would have happened if you hadn't pussied out and ran away in the _first place. Cameron_ wouldn't have gotten captured, I wouldn't have been shot, I wouldn't have kissed you and we all wouldn't have been in this _mess_ to... to... " he coughed twice, loud and phlegmatically. "to... b-begin with. Okay?So don't _tell me_ it's not important, because it _is_ important."

His head fell back onto the pillow, and he kept coughing now.

John looked at nothing. His face was burning, his feet had minds of their own. Tap tap tap tap, he couldn't stop them even if he tried.

Mike hissed and readjusted the mask blindly. "So tell me. Are you back? Are you back for good, John?"

"We've been over this."

"Well, let's go over it _again." _

John gulped and looked away quite blatantly now, staring at the door. Hadn't expected this. At all. Christ, all he wanted to do was comfort the poor kid. "We _talked_ about it. You were fine with it, I-"

"Yeah, because we were on a mission, John. Why do you think I was so curt and laid back with you all the goddamned time? You don't talk about that shit when you're on a mission, you save it... it... you save it for afterward."

John glared at him. "_You're_ a fucking hypocrite, Mike, you fucking tried to _make out_ with me! During a mission!"

"Nobody's perfect." There was a slight crumbling sound, almost inaudible to both their ears near the floor. With the spluttering of the oxygen machine and the gas noise, it went unnoticed.

"Well _I'm_ not neither, goddamnit!"

_"You HAVE to be, John!"_

"You sound like my mother!"

The door clicked open, and Cameron poked her head in. "Is there-"

"Give us a sec," John stammered.

"Get the fuck out of here, machine," Mike yelled at the same time.

"The machine has stopped emitting oxygen," Cameron said.

Everyone froze and looked at the mask slung over Mike's face. The gas had stopped coming, that perpetual spluttering noise having ended... holy Christ, John didn't even _notice_ it. The hairs on his arm stood up all over again.

"Uh," Mike said, tugging at the mask. "Uh, check it?" He coughed. "I'm fine-" he coughed again. "F-f-fine, jus-" And then he wouldn't stop.

"Oh, _fuck,_" John whispered. He scrambled out of his chair and ran around the other side of the bed. He stared at the amalgam of medical equipment and just saw a mass of white and red crosses. Nothing in particular stood out. "Which one's-"

Mike pulled harshly on the tube leading up to his mask, causing the whole thing to shake. John caught sight of the appropriate tube easily and started following it towards a thrumming machine. Cameron just stood there at the door, looking out into the hall.

"Uh, looks good..." John muttered, "For now, hold on, lemme-" He stopped as the tube suddenly cut off, ending in two separate halves on the floor, a little near the oxygen machine itself. It was torn neatly in two, and air kept spilling out through the half leading into the actual machine. John held the two pieces in his hands for a few seconds, unable to move, just sort of staring in shock. Oh, Christ.

Mike coughed. "John?"

"It's severed," John said.

"Oh, fuck."

"CAMERON, call the fucking doctor!"

Silence. John's knees started to shake. Mike's oxygen, his _air_ was fucking missing, it was gone, he wasn't gonna fucking last if he didn't have anything. "C-CAMERON!"

Mike coughed again. It sounded like he was trying to say something, but now he was just coughing continuously, without pausing, without time to draw air. He... oh _CHRIST. _

_"CAMERON!"_

Nothing. John sprang up and looked over to the door. It was empty. Oh God. What the hell happened? Where the fuck was-

"Mike, where'd she go?!"

He didn't respond. Probably couldn't. His body bounced up and down on the bed, his chest rattled with each cough. Holy _Christ. _"Mike!" He wasn't getting any fucking air.

John went down again, staring frenziedly at the equipment. Which one was it? Which- Ah. He grabbed the mask tube and tried to pull it over to the oxygen machine, but it was too far off and John didn't want to perturb Mike any more than he already fucking was. He tried to grab the machine itself and pull it over in distance but it was too heavy.

Okay. Calm down. _Calm down. _Holy crap, he sounded terrible, only a matter of time till the fucking blood started pouring out. Don't panic, John.

Think. He stood up, pressing a hand against his forehead. _Think._ Okay. Uh... uh...

Oxygen. Air. He needs air, John-

Mouth to mouth.

He whirled back over to Mike's shaking form and pressed his hands against his arm. "_Mike! _Try to stop coughing, I'm gonna give you air! Mouth to mouth, alright? Stop coughing, I need to give you air! Mike!"

The coughs came like rapid fire now, never ending, a continuous stream. He was g- Blood shot up out of his mouth.

_"STOP!" _John yelled, unable to find anything else to say.

--

Gloria Redfield looked up from her magazine, slapping it closed as the buzzer above the reception door... well, buzzed. The hospital lobby had been empty for hours except her; always had to have a nightshift, they said. Well, it was fine by her. This was the quietest part of the "day," and she got a fair pay roll for watching an empty room for hours on end.

Which allowed her certain... indulgences at times, when she could get away with it. The smutty little magazine she'd been reading, for instance, was one of them. Kept her entertained and, occasionally, very much awake. Not good form to be caught with it, needless to say.

She pushed the thing in under the counter, the last line _he slowly, deliciously drew his jeans down to reveal-_ still etched in her mind. Oh, Christ, she was gonna look like a freak to whoever was coming out.

It was none other than Doctor Joseph Manderley, the head honcho at this hour. Gloria tilted her head confusedly as he strode out into the lobby, making a bee-line for the front door. Guy didn't even _look_ at her. Not that she was complaining, it was just... weird. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on a bunch of kids who came in earlier in the day. Fucking gang violence got one of them shot in the chest.

"Hey, uh..."

Manderley froze and turned his head to look at her. His glasses were pushed right up against his eyes, making them almost invisible. It was like Gloria was staring at a pair of mirrors.

"Yes?" Manderley said, with barely any inflection.

"I... thought you were just..." Gloria gulped and cleared her throat. "Uh. Busy. With something. Are you leaving?"

"I'm getting something out of my car."

Gloria held her hands up, nodding rapidly. "Sure, sure, yeah. Sorry. I'm sorry. Go on." Holy Christ, he never gave her the heebie jeebies like this before. Or ever, come to think of it.

Manderley stared at her, tilting his head slowly, rotating it almost like the turning axis of a planet. Gloria felt like something that belonged in a petri dish all of a sudden. Oh...

"Keep up the good work," Manderley said, grinning broadly. He turned and walked away. Gloria mutely followed every step he took until the front door was pulled open, letting a stiff nightly breeze flow into the lobby which chilled her to the bone. Then he was gone.

And he wasn't coming back. Gloria could feel that.

Gloria slowly fingered the magazine, wondering which page she'd left it on. Only half-heartedly, this time. Holy Christ.

--

It was like listening to a man trying to breathe under water.

"CAMERRRON! SOMEBODY!" John screamed. "Oh, god. Oh god- Mike, listen to me, try to-"

Blood spurted up from Michael's mouth, landing on John's shirt. His face was completely bonkers, gone, there was no emotion besides suffering. He was completely gone. Tears of frustration started to pour from John's eyes and he angrily swiped at his face. Where... it was all insane... Where was Cameron?!

"John."

"Oh _god," _John breathed, looking up as Cameron strode into the room. "He's gonna fucking choke to death, he needs the doctor, where's the doctor?"

Silent for a moment. John kept his hands pressed against Mike's chest, trying to stabilize him in vain. "Ca-"

"He's dead."

"_No, he's not! He's still alive-"_

"I meant the doctor."

--

Doctor Joseph Manderley approached his car and, when he was sure that no one else was around to watch, transformed himself into a red-headed woman. The only noise was a soft slurping sound, as though something out of Hell was being dragged up through a straw, and Catherine Weaver walked the rest of the way towards her car.

--

"What-"

"He's dead, that's all," Cameron said.

"HELP ME, THEN!"

John sniffed reflexively and brushed his eyes with his thumb. "Jesus, Cameron... help me."

Mike was silent. He just stopped coughing.

"Oh..."

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_

He hadn't even heard the fucking thing, and that wasn't just him ignoring the life support. It was just quiet. That was why-

John pried Mike's mouth open, sucked in deeply, and pressed his mouth onto the resistance fighter's. Blew in.

Dying. He was fucking dying. Oh Christ, it was gonna happen-

He stopped blowing in and stood back, breathing heavily. "C-c-cameron-"

"Keep doing that."

"He's DYING!"

"Keep doing that."

John froze himself, pressed both hands against his cheeks, and breathed in. Okay. Right. Relax. Keep doing that. He opened Mike's mouth again and blew in.

_Beep. _

John shuddered, didn't stop blowing in. Okay. Good. That's a start.

_Beeeeee_

He drew his head back, breathed in, pressed, blew in. Temporary fix. Oh, Christ, what was Cameron doing? It was all going so fucking well, why was this happening?

He was barely aware of the sound of screeching metal, pushing against the floor, resisting. What was she doin-

Blow in. Resist. Don't even think. Keep going.

_Beep. _

Mike coughed against John's mouth; John tasted blood. The retarded thing? That was a good sign. It meant he was trying to breathe.

"Mike?" John drew his head back, staring. Mike's eyes stared up at him, aware, yet... just pained. Barely intelligent. John stared into his eyes.

"I'm staying," John whispered. "I'm staying, I'm staying, it's okay. I won't run. I won't run anymore. No matter what, no matter what happens, even if you die, or if you live, or if anything happens I'll just stay where I am, I'll stay. I'm John. Even if I have to kill, or do anything with anyone, I'm John. I'm John Connor. I'm not Aaron Bentley or John Baum or John anything else I'm John Connor, your commander, your friend, your... don't die. I don't- Don't die, soldier, _please don't die, _I-"

"Move," Cameron said.

John sucked in a breath, blew it out uselessly, and moved aside. Cameron grabbed the end of the Mike's oxygen tube, briefly manipulated the end of it, and stabbed it back into the air machine. The spluttering of the gas started up again in earnest. John took a wide back step, watching to see what would happen next.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

John and Cameron stared at Michael, the only noise being the gentle continuousness of the machine running now. Without fault. Mike slowly settled back into his bed, barely moving.

A minute passed. Nothing happened.

Jesus.

"Jesus," John muttered.

"He'll be fine," Cameron said. John could already see that, but he didn't care. He needed to hear another voice. Maybe she understood that.

"Oh god," John said.

It felt like the calm _after_ the storm. Like a bomb just went off and everything was silent as the survivors wonder what _just_ happened.

Except no one died.

Oh god, the doctor.

"Holy Christ," said John.

Cameron gave him a look. "Rethinking your faith?"

A bout of laughter escaped John before anything else. It felt good. Fucking orgasmic.

"No... no... hehehe... oh god... Uhm." He coughed, sniffled again. "Go hide the doctor, get rid of him. We can't be pinned for his... y'know."

Cameron blinked. "Oh. Of course."

"Cameron..."

She turned to him. "You meant all of that. I know. I believe you."

"_Thank you._"

And she left. John stared at Michael for a few more seconds before collapsing back into the chair. He'd stay there for ten minutes before Mike woke up again.

--

"I feel sick."

John blinked and looked up. Jesus, he'd been dozing? Something like that. The adrenaline was still pumping through him. Christ. Mike felt like a land mine now. Any time and he could just... blow up.

"You're okay, Mike," said John.

"Aughh..."

"Go back to sleep."

He looked at John. "Just a sec. First... Jesus, fuck man... thank you."

John gulped and nodded quickly. "Yeah. I'm telling you, Mike, I'm not gonna let anyone die for me if I can't help it."

A short silence from Michael. He was thinking. Or sleeping. John shuddered slightly. Too much shit happening at once.

Who would want to kill Michael? The doctor being dead, the tube getting severed so cleanly, it was just too... _neat _for it all to be an accident. Christ, he was probably still in danger...

"I was supposed to die, John," Mike said.

"But you didn't. And you're not. You're gonna live."

"Yeah," Mike said, "I guess so. That's pretty awesome."

John giggled. "Gee, you sound really committed."

"I feel stoned is what I am... or sound. Feel. Whatever." He coughed slightly. Softly. John didn't give it any thought, no worry. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, I... Eh. I felt confused, I guess."

"Are you mad at me?"

"I feel like I'm being played with. If not now, then when? Maybe it's all a game. I was almost hoping you guys wouldn't... manage to plug me back in."

"No, I meant..." John's right hand twirled in the air, describing something without shape.

"Let's not get into it. I believe you."

The weird thing? With Cameron it felt like she was being genuine when she told him she believed him.

And Mike? He sounded like he wasn't convinced. That was the weird thing.

"We all need you," Mike muttered. "That's why I... well... I guess it's hard for you, but..."

"You don't know the half of it," John said ruefully.

"I know. I'm sorry, man. But we all need you." He sighed... softening. "You're certainly committed when ya wanna be. That's good."

"Yeah. Yeah, you know what? It is. It is good."

--

"How is he?"

"He's asleep. Where's the doctor?"

"No one will find the body."

"You didn't kill him, right?"

"No."

"Then who the fuck did?"

"Someone who knows who Michael really is."

"So... what, one of those assholes cultists?"

"I detected no humans in this area besides the doctor. It was a Terminator."

"... Jesus. We gotta... Will it come back?"

"I don't know. If Michael's death was it's primary mission it would have been more direct in carrying it out. As it stands with the sabotage, I don't know."

"It's not like you guys to be sloppy."

Cameron stared at John Connor for a few seconds in the hallway, tilting her head slowly to the side. "You wouldn't know."

--

In the morning, Michael was still alive, and a bunch of nurses promised to watch over him all day. Philip and Cheri Westin showed up at around seven o'clock, and they talked for a little, all awkward like. John didn't like the way Philip stared at him. Cameron didn't like it either.

In the end, though, John guessed that Mike's would-be killer wasn't coming back.

And, when he thought about it, neither was Michael. The hospital expected a several-week recovery, if that. And all the same, he likely wouldn't be the same kind of fighter he had been. But he was alive, and to John that was all that mattered. As far as he was concerned, history was changed. They changed the guy's fate.

Not him, of course. He still loved John. John could tell.

Absently, maybe wistfully, John wished things could have been different, if only for that's sake. But every time he looked at Cameron, and when his gaze lingered, he knew that could never happen.

When they were the only one's in the room again, John sat down, sighing. "How're you feeling?"

"Better than last night. I guess you're leaving."

"Yeah. Listen-"

"I know. It's okay."

John nodded. "Yeah. I'm... I'm _sorry, _Mike. And listen... thank you. For everything. I guess we didn't start off right, but... y'know, bygones."

Mike returned the nod. "No matter what, just be careful, alright?"

"I will."

Jeez.

"You still have a chance against Skynet," Mike said. "I'm proof."

John sighed and stood up again. "Yeah, you are. So stay alive, okay?"

"I will. I..."

"I know." John looked at the floor. Jeez. "Goodbye, Mike."

Mike shrugged. "Not like we won't see each other again. I'm getting a laptop in here. I was doing a bit of... uh, research before this whole thing started. I've got a few ideas."

Oh, Christ, that was good. Made things a helluva lot more bearable. As long as he still had some use, he wouldn't... well, anyway.

"Well, if you ever need help cracking something," John made a phone sign near his ear. "Good luck."

Michael laid back against his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Jeez. Felt like more ought to be said. Or done. Maybe just said. But John didn't know anything else. He had to get back to routine. Business as usual. Get ready for the next big hurdle.

"Where're you going?" Michael asked idly as John approached the door.

"I'm going back home."

Michael nodded. There was a lot more to be said, alright. But for now this would do. Time to close this part of the drama, get into the newest mix. John absently thought about what was coming next, and the prospect didn't exactly fill him with joy.

Or sadness, necessarily. It'd be better than not being there at all, right?

**Author's Note: Epilogue coming next. Thank you, all of you, for sticking around and reading. I realize this isn't totally relevant to what we're seeing on the TV show, but I started a story and by God I'm gonna finish it. Again, thank you. **

**I'll try to keep it short; but no promises. **


	20. The Returned

**Away**

Chapter Twenty: The Returned

Byron the Mailman was about halfway up the porch, sorting through a bunch of envelopes with big corporate markings on them (whoever lived here was gonna get their asses crucified with bills) when he realized that the door to the house was nonexistent.

Which wasn't to say it wasn't _there, _it was just... in pieces. All over the porch. There were splinters of wood everywhere. Byron the Mailman blinked twice at the sight, as though not fully capable of processing it. Looked positively as if a _bomb_ just took the place out, blowing the door to pieces in its violent wake. The foyer to the house, fully visible (since there was no door! Well, it was _there,_ it just wasn't... bah,) was similarly in ruins. Big, nasty looking holes polka-dotted the inside wall. and there were slivers of black... metal, it looked like, sticking out from the floor. And everything else? Dank, mossy looking. Exposed to the rain for how many days?

Jesus Christ. Byron the Mailman knew this was Los Angeles and all, but this was technically an alright neighborhood. He _liked_ going through this place, and to see such a stark snapshot of violence right here was... brrr.

"Hurm," Byron said. "Y'ello? Anybody home?"

Not a bad family living here, too. Nice house. Nice people. The woman was smoking hot, if a little... detached. Every gaze Byron got from her was of the thousand-yard variety, which brought him uncomfortably back to Iraq in the early nineties. The man of the house was no different; if anything, he was worse. Probably saw the elephant himself, but Byron wouldn't have bet money that the lady was an angel in comparison.

They were alright folk when you got right down to it, though. Byron wondered if they _were_ alright. You couldn't exactly _miss_ a destroyed door.

He cleared his throat and repeated his call, enunciating a bit more clearly.

"No!"

Byron the Mailman blinked. He stared into the house and tilted his head. Who- ... Huh.

He looked around. Didn't sound as if-

"Shee-it!" Byron cried, backing up slightly. A fat woman in a pink robe was standing on the path, a newspaper in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Smoke trailed up from the end of the thing, making an almost perfect spiral in the air.

The woman looked properly mortified.

"Yuh, sorry for the language, miss," Byron said, frowning. If he were white he'd probably be blushing. "You just took me by surprise is all."

If he were in Hollywood he probably would have gotten a grilling by some prim and proper lady whose kids were smoking joints up in their rooms all the while. This place was pretty close to that, but otherwise, pretty easy going. The fat lady rolled her eyes and took a drag from the cigarette. "That's alright, sonny. Didn't mean to scare you."

Byron grunted and turned around to slip the envelopes into the mailbox. He frowned when he realized that the mailbox had a rather large piece of blackened metal sticking out.

"Anyway, no one's home. No one's been home since the other day." A slight intake of breath as she sucked her coffin nail.

"Mmhm." Byron worked the packed envelopes in past the piece of... shrapnel, he was guessing. Holy Jesus. "What happened here, if ya know?"

"You're askin' the wrong lady. I jus' heard a bang in the middle of the night n' we assumed they were firing off some kinda fire cracker. They got two punk kids livin' here."

"Looks like a bomb went off to me," Byron said, taking another wide glance at the place. "No body got hurt, right?"

"Yeah, that's the thing." Pause, drag. "We all swarmed the place n' found the eldest walking outta here like it was nothin'. Wished us _good night." _The lady clucked and wheezed. "She's a funny one, lemme tell you."

"And you didn't call the cops," Byron said, already knowing the answer. He was glad his back was turned to the woman, bending down as he was to inspect a piece of shrapnel.

"Eheeh... No, guess we didn't."

Probably meant they didn't like the presence of cops around here. Maybe Byron was wrong about the whole joint business.

"I mean, jus' looked like foul play... ain't like it's our fault. They can repair it..."

"But they haven't been back since."

"Eh. Nope."

Byron rolled his eyes and sighed. Gang shit. Had to be drug related, or something like that. Whole family was down in Mexico by now. Christ, you get neighborhoods like these, you think they're spick and span, and then you just find out it's a bunch of bleach drained over a pile of shit. Breaks your heart.

He could feel her fidgeting uncomfortably on the stone path, for all the world as though she'd had something to do with it. Guilt by association? Maybe she didn't feel as if she were explaining it well enough. Or she didn't care. "Say, uh, I'm 9838 on this street. Got anythin' for me?"

Byron grumbled, picking his hand up from the shrapnel shard. It was black, unfriendly, cool and wet. "Ayuh, just hold on a second, miss."

"Oh, sure." Intake, suck. Cough. Wheeze. How long before she keels over from lung cancer? With a body like that?

Jeez, you find one destroyed door, one remnant of an alright American family ruined, and your entire day gets a whole lot darker. With all the recent terrorist attack bullshit, it wasn't hard to feel particularly pessimistic.

Byron was rifling through a bunch of envelopes, thumbing and holding onto the ones marked **9838, Maple Drive**, when he heard two additional sets of feet walking up the path. More friggen' neighbors come to gossip, then. Byron wrinkled his nose, not bothering to look up; smelled like they hadn't bothered to shower this morning either. He was just gonna hand the fat woman her mail and get the hell back to the same old routine.

The fat lady let out a slight gasp.

"Jeez, what the hell happened to the door?" said a male's voice. Young. Byron blinked once and turned his head up to look at the newcomers.

Two kids were walking up the path, seeming to barely acknowledge the presence of Byron the Mailman and the fat lady. One was a teenaged boy, wearing a white shirt stenciled in with black symbols. Looked like a fence and a bunch of trees, to be honest, although Byron couldn't be sure because of all the blood caked into the shirt. The other one, a girl who was prettier than half the women you'd find on a dirty magazine cover, was in similar shape. A gorgeous head of brunette hair framed a face marred with blatant looking scars and cuts.

"Firecracker," she said after a moment. They walked on past the fat lady, who stared blankly at the two.

"Bull," the boy said and he sounded... tired. He had tiny blue circles under his eyes, and his forehead was creased with sweat and a bit of grime. He seemed ready to fall down.

Byron's package of mail slipped out of his fingers, seesawing to the ground softly. The smell of the two was overwhelming at this range.

"No, it wasn't due to a cow," the girl pointed out. The boy stooped to pick up Byron the Mailman's mail and pressed the stuff into his hands, not even bothering to look up at the guy. Byron did not thank him.

"Y'know what, I don't even care. I just want to sleep."

"Yes."

They were up on the porch, backs turned, and then through the door and gone, voices carrying to the outside all the while.

Yeah.

Nice neighborhood.

"Huh," the fat lady said, nodding her head slowly, sucking of the cancer stick.

"Huh," Byron the Mailman said.

---------------------

When they were sure the two loiterers outside had finally left (and they spent an annoying amount of time standing there, gawking at nothing in particular,) John and Cameron trudged over to the kitchen table and both sat down. John stared around the place in dull amazement. After this long... and really, was it that long? Two days... after this long, and everything looks exactly the same.

But the mood is lost. The feeling of home. He should have felt comforted, warm, welcomed. But everything in the house was dead silence. No oil burner running, computers, kitchen crap.... none of those continuous, comforting sounds. It was cold, too. Cold because the door had been... uh, left _open_ the whole night. And for the duration of a day. John idly wondered if there were no animals running around inside.

Besides that? Everything else was the same. Not a stone out of place. His leaving had felt like some... momentous event, something _huge,_ like nothing would ever be the same.

But no. Only in novels do buildings turn to dust... when their spirit is lost. This place had him. Had Cameron skulking around, had Derek griping about the food, about how he had to sleep on the couch. Had his mom.

Had him.

Christ, he was being sappy for no good reason. No home could ever keep him. It was just a passing ghost... a white shape as your car goes down the highway. You see it, only catch a glimpse, never really know it. And then it's gone.

It was better than having nothing, though.

John slumped slightly on the table, staring dully at the wooden oak. He saw patterns he'd never perceived before, a whole new appreciation for it. You never really know something until you lose it.

Or leave it.

Jesus Christ, he felt like shit. Everything was starting to weigh in now. He'd made a mistake. A huge fucking mistake. Imagine if he'd never bothered leaving. If he just got on the bus after school with Cameron, went back here. Imagine, imagine...

But honestly... really. Why was he back? He didn't feel any better. He felt... relieved to be safe. He liked being with Cameron again. And when mother came home, when the misunderstandings were taken care of, he'd hug his mother. He _liked_ being here again. When he was alone he did stupid shit.

But honestly, what did that all _mean? _What did it _change? _This was a reversion to the status quo. A nothing. He'd still feel... _off. Useless. Depressed. Emotional. Inadequate. _

Cameron sat there and absently adjusted her hair, brushing it slightly with her hand.

"The door," he said after a long while.

Really, it was only a matter of time before the spiral continued anew. Before he decided, again, that he didn't want any of it. Maybe he'd try a new method. A new way of escape.

"They tried to get you here," Cameron said. "The one I killed, and someone else."

"With a _bomb?" _ _Well, why not, John?_

"They made one from our materials. We'll have to replace them. And the door. And fix the house." Cameron frowned and stared back at the broken foyer. John traced his hand along a wooden pattern. A spiral. Turning, turning, constantly returning to the same place, except in a different way. A different direction.

"I can handle it," Cameron said after a moment. "You should go upstairs. Sleep." Somehow, the way she said it, it wasn't exactly a request.

She was an interesting one. He'd been over this before, but it never failed to amaze him. _He_ was a brat. A whiner. Sometimes he flirted with brilliance, but the virtue of being young and feeling entitled often got in the way of his wider destiny. Sarah criticized him of it. Derek was exasperated. Cameron just understood and did her best to work around it. She never stopped. Ever. It was her programming.

So why did it feel so _good? _Because it had evolved over these past few days into something... more complex than that. And John knew this. And she knew it.

And like regular teenagers, they both refused to confront it head on. Kind of funny when you thought about it.

"Nah," John said, shaking his head. "I should, uh... I should shower first. Wake myself up."

"You've been awake for many hours."

John shrugged. Felt like moving glaciers with his shoulders. Jesus, but he _was_ tired as hell. "I wanna help you. With the door."

Cameron stared at him like she was trying to figure him out. Wasn't exactly hard, in John's opinion. Maybe not so much for her. He knew what she was probably thinking. _Don't let him out of your sight. He'll try and escape again. _

He cleared his throat and leaned over, yawning slightly as he forced some breath into his lungs. "I'm gonna take a shower. You can stand outside the door if you want. When I'm done, I'll come out, and we can clean the house up. I promise, Cam."

Her stoney, analyzing gaze turned soft, and she nodded. He didn't know if it was... relief or just simple fondness.

Either way, the expression made him grin.

--------------

Pulling his shirt off proved a little more difficult than he'd expected. The thing clung to his chest like a piece of saran wrap, or like they'd been through too much together and it didn't want to go. How much was packed into the thing? Some pre-sex sweat (weird how he thought of it that way, especially when it never got borne out) from the party. Sweat from running. The cold, slightly wet feeling in his armpits that he got when he aimed a pistol at his look-alike in the dance club.

Blood. Some of it belonging to a bunch of men with machine guns, some of it Michael Oxferod's. Some of it his.

Yeah. Certainly was a lot to go through. John yanked slightly on it and it came forward easily enough. He nearly groaned as it passed over his head; the smell was kind of rancid, to put it lightly. He planted the thing in the corner of the bathroom and worked absently on the rest of his clothing.

Any time now Cameron was gonna insist that they have a chat. Probably similar to the one they'd had just before John left, where he laid out all of his reasons for wanting to run away.

Now he'd have to lay out all of his reasons for why he'd stay instead. It wasn't hard to see why everyone was so pissed off with him. It was all a big contradiction and he knew it. Everyone knew it. They couldn't trust him.

But see... no one else really knew besides Cameron. And she, if anything, was his most exacting defender. Who was to say she would _ever_ let him out of her sight again? How much did programming really trump her inner, growing ideas as a person? A being? How much could she trust without violating her protocols, her fail safes, everything that ensured the big black line between robot and human?

Christ. They were just gonna talk, he'd probably cry a whole lot and feel goddamned ashamed of himself in the end, and they'd probably call it even.

Inside, he _knew_ what was what. His swirling feelings aside, yesterday was... a lesson, if anything else. He wouldn't let Michael go. Wouldn't let him die, even when it seemed absolutely hopeless. It wasn't easy, but he did it anyway, maybe if only to ensure that he wouldn't feel guilty, but whatever.

He was a friend. Cameron was with John the whole time, too, when she could have easily written the kid off for dead. But neither of them gave up because of John's insistence alone. That had to count for something.

Wasn't exactly leadership quality, sure. But it was a step.

John looked around for a second, making sure a towel was in the room. He grasped it in his hand and ran the hand up and down. Good and dry. He brought it over to the tub and started up the shower, setting the temperature to hot. Not incredibly hot, but good enough to get some steam and wake him up. He stood there, occasionally slashing his hand down through the jet to test how warm it was. It was broiling the first time, a little better the second, and just right the last. He went inside and stood under the stream, blinking slightly in shock at the feeling of it all. He felt like he was getting looser, less constrained all of a sudden.

He couldn't expect to please everybody. Far from it. He wasn't the leader yet, just because of his doubts, his misgivings...

He acted like... a fricken' kid when he made all of those judgments before. When he assumed his mom hated him, when he declared that he'd be forever useless... In the same circumstances, looking back, would he make the same choices?

He didn't like to think about that. That probably meant _yes, _but you couldn't be sure, of course.

He was just trying to get all his ducks in a row for Cameron.

That was a stupid thing to think. Okay, he was getting all of his ducks in a row for _himself, _too. Trying, at least. He had to convince himself as well as Cameron that he wouldn't be doing shit like this again.

And he was having a real hard time.

He felt tired, confused. His eyes were barely open, he'd been through _so _much lately. What he wanted was to be clean. To sleep. He wanted his nice, soft bed. He wanted home, and he had it. Wanted Cameron, his family. That came before everything else.

And when he had a chance to recoup, he could take a step back then, and, with a rational eye, examine himself.

He stared up at the shower head, at the star-like spraying of water, letting his hair get wet, all of him. Clean.

God, he hoped so.

--------------

_It ain't over til' it's over. _

That was an English idiom, attributed to Yogi Bera. Cameron knew this not because she'd looked it up on the internet, or because she spent hours reading the dictionary.

It was a line of text, converted to numbers, imbedded in her wider programming. She didn't know who said it until she decided to take the phrase and put it in a Google search engine.

What did that mean?

Cameron moved over to the hallway, past the bathroom and, by extension, John. The shower was running. So far he was keeping to his promise. She grabbed the broom and dustpan, turned fluidly, and walked back over to the foyer.

It meant that one of the Cyberdyne programmers had a sense of humor, and a particular love of baseball. All the same, it was a rather apt phrase, given her nature. You don't give up, ever, until you are unable to go any longer. That was the simple definition, really, although Cameron was sure a more baseball oriented answer was available somewhere.

Nothing is over until it's over. It was a self-explanatory quote, really. They were the kind most used by humans and most appreciated for their simplicity.

It applied to Cameron's situation. To the _whole _situation, really. She moved the broom over the pieces of shrapnel, drawing them all into the dustpan. She did it quickly and efficiently, not wasting a single stroke. It was fairly tedious work, even for a machine. Absently she looked over at the doorway, rebuilt the door in her HUD down to every last detail, and made a note to go buy (or steal) a replacement from the local Home Depot.

John had returned. He wouldn't be leaving for quite some time, Cameron suspected. But how long would that really be, until those thoughts began to seep in again? Until the stress of it all became too much for him to bear, when the knife became too sharp for him to handle? What other releases would he search for, to free himself from his situation?

Cameron was supposed to plan for every contingency without question. It was an essential aspect to her function as a product of war.

But it was a difficult thing here. She didn't like to think about the consequences of John disappearing one day, whether via his own death or another flight is right scenario. She didn't like to consider what it would do to her, to everything in her world. Every tragedy translates to the selfish sense of loss. If you lack investment in something, it is hard to feel bad about it, after all. Cameron was... frightened, to say the least, of the prospect of a world without John Connor.

What would it mean, after all?

Nothing good. It was why she had to plan for every contingency without question. To prevent herself from feeling that way.

What a wonderful, terrible evolution of her psyche. From a pure objective oriented being to... mixed, really.

At any rate, she had a lot to think about. They had an unknown amount of time to spend before Sarah and Derek Reese returned home. There was quite a bit they could accomplish in that short time span. Cameron saw herself, again, acting as psychologist.

It hadn't worked out last time. Hopefully she'd learned something. John's primary concern was vested in his own worth and how it effected the people around him. It was a fear that translated into many things; his status as a child, as the future leader of the civilized world, in his mother's eyes, in _Cameron's_ eyes. He was worried about how his performance in those areas would be perceived by his peers, the biggest being how competent he acted, how soldierly, how cold, how efficient. All that was expected, psychologically, of a military leader.

So far it wasn't working. Cameron didn't expect that it would for quite some time, but John was impatient. He either wanted to be that person or he wanted to distance himself from it entirely. Two extremes that guaranteed virtually no happiness. It wasn't difficult to see why he reacted the way he did over the course of this week.

Cameron stopped for a moment, the broom held in mid-swing.

She was feeling something close to pity.

Funny.

Her primary objective was to make sure he'd survive to fulfill his destiny. She'd only recently begun to realize that that didn't just translate to _protect when shot at, shadow when in dangerous areas. _It implied much more. Perhaps John intended that when he sent her.

What she needed to do was emphasize the fact that he was still in the learning process. John had to make his peace with that. He had to make his peace with the fact that hardship was inevitable. Tragedy beyond comprehension. It was all on the way. He had to realize he wasn't _there,_ or _away, _he was _in transit. _There was room for error, when you got right down to it.

This wouldn't be easy.

She'd tell him that she'd be there to help. She always would be, no matter what happened. No matter how she felt about him, in the end. _That_ was her mission, first, second, and last.

--------------

Around ten minutes later, John found himself frowning at the empty bathroom. Dirty clothes in the corner. Not much else. Some deodorant around. Medicine cabinet. Himself in a mirror, wrapping the towel round his waist.

No clean stuff. Well, 'cept for him, of course. He looked at the door apprehensively. Heh. And why? All he had to do was walk to his room. It was like, two feet away. He did it all the time. Get inside his room, get dressed. You're home now. Safe now. There's nothing complex about this. You can take your time.

He hadn't heard Cameron in a while. And why does that matter, John?

It doesn't, you idiot.

Whoa, what was with _this_ all of a sudden? Where did all _this_ come from? It was like he was expecting something to happen. Some sort of... culmination. He didn't know. Maybe it had to do with the fact that... Gah. They got... close in the last few days. Even when he hated her, wanted her to leave him alone, when he ran from her, she was there, breathing down his neck.

And how easily he made up with her when there was no place left to run to! What did he want? Something. They kept... they kept getting _somewhere, _but no place _tangible, _if you could get that. Few days ago and he was shirtless behind a back alley, behind some church. She offered herself to him. He had no idea why, and sometimes he regretted actually... denying her.

But why would she do it? To get it out of the way? Was it sincere? Could robots feel that sort of crap, get _anything_ out of it? If he... if they did what she was suggesting, would she just sit there as he inexpertly... did his thing? Would she be like an accessorized vibrator?

John smirked, shaking his head lightly. When all your defenses are gone, when the cards are all on the table, this is what you think about, Johnny? You turn right to sex?

Christ, he was tired.

John opened the door and turned into the hallway, absently running a hand through his wet hair. Way too much shit going on. And y'know what? It'd keep on coming.

Man, that was it. He'd alluded to it constantly, but he never really _understood _until now. Shit was gonna keep coming down the pipe, no matter what. No matter if he liked it or not. He just had to... deal. For now.

He blinked as he almost bumped into Cameron; she was just sort of standing there in the middle of the hall, and he kept staring down at the floor, lost in thought, so...

Yeah. He stopped as soon as she appeared at the periphery of his vision, looking up sheepishly at her.

"Erm. Hey."

She had the dustpan folded up in one hand. Probably bringing it to the trash, all the shrapnel. This was what an attempt on his life evened out to in the end. Taking out the garbage late one night.

He stood there, dripping.

"Do you feel more awake now?" Cameron asked. It was a pretty intense sight, seeing her like this. Y'know, sometimes she made a show of acting like a regular girl. An act. Around school sometimes.

Right now she was sort of hunched a bit. She looked almost frazzled, like she'd been thinking too much. She looked like she'd been helping out around the house for a few hours.

And why? _Why_ act like this? For his benefit, John would sometimes conclude.

"Yeah," John said. "I do."

He grabbed her arms and, clumsily, with perhaps a bit too much force, pulled her over to him and just...

He kissed her. Like, on the lips. Right there. They were together.

It felt good, too.

She sort of... molded against him. She was a bit lower than him, and so she just arched right over backwards to compensate. _Compensate. _She tilted her head slightly against his. She just hanged there as he held her in place. No arm wrapping. No... no complex stuff. It was simple, it was quick. It was good.

And she tilted her head, sighed softly into his mouth. John's eyes were shut tight, but he felt it. He felt everything. She was somewhat cold and wet against his body, but he was pretty warm himself, so it was okay. He breathed in with her, and she breathed in with him.

He didn't wonder if it was some subroutine calling up the proper motions to make this as real as possible. It felt real. Maybe it was a masquerade, but she went along with it, and right then, for the first time _ever, _he didn't care that she was a machine.

She tasted terrible. She tasted like blood, after a fashion. Dried copper. She was smelly as all hell. _He_ probably looked insanely awkward, holding her like this. She was heavy. He felt like he couldn't hold onto her much longer. It wasn't a perfect kiss.

Wasn't a perfect relationship either. At the moment, he didn't care.

He felt like dispensing with the towel, but, at the same time, was terrified of what would happen if they went any further along with this.

They went on with the breathing thing for a little bit. Maybe a few seconds. It was an easy hook, something regular, something sane about the kiss that they could focus on. They breathed in together.

And they parted. She was the first one to let go, backing away slightly, giving enough indication to John that he should let her go. He did. Arms felt like blocks all of a sudden, and hands like marble. Unmovable. He didn't want to let her go. He felt scared of what would happen afterwards. If they could have gone the whole day with it, in some way, instead of these few seconds, it would have been better. Thoughtless.

But he did it.

He stepped back. She stepped back. He absently readjusted his towel, which had _somehow _gotten a bit looser. Had he felt ready? Fuck yes.

Cameron hefted the dustpan, stared at it for a quick moment, and let it fall to the floor. It hit with a dull rattle.

"Uh," John said.

"John..." Cameron said. Her face was blank. Default. Almost scowling a bit. She didn't have time for the act right now.

"That-"

Cameron went silent. She wasn't gonna fumble with her words. She needed time to think of something to say.

"I should go," John blurted.

"Yes," Cameron said, sounding relieved. Oh, god. What just happened? "We should talk later."

"I'm going to bed," John said. "Feel tired. Yeah."

Cameron said nothing.

"A-and we'll talk later. You can come in. Later." He smirked suddenly, and it felt almost... spasmodic. "Heh. Heh. Yeah."

He walked on, turning sharply towards his room, still smiling. The encounter hadn't quite clicked in his mind yet. He kissed the machine. Ah, there was the clicking. _HE KISSED CAMERON. _

Whoa.

He turned around, half expecting to not see her there.

She was staring at him. There was a thin, barely _there_ smile on her face. But it existed.

And he was still doing it himself. Yeah. Yeah, it happened. They did it. John gulped down suddenly and continued into his room, blinking as though he'd been staring at the sun too long. Yeah, it was awkward. Yeah, it had about a million implications if they chose to make something out of this. But yeah... he felt _good. _

He felt _happy. _

------------------

It was pretty late when they landed, and the sudden screeching of plane tires was more than enough to wake them both up. They gathered their meager belongings and weapons, prepared to leave.

Airport security was a cinch to get past.

There were several tickets plastered onto the Jeep as they relocated it out in the parking lot. Bunch on the windshield, a request to tow the car when day broke.

Sarah and Derek smirked at one another and pulled the things off. Getting inside, they both shivered; the interior was cold, every piece, every bit of machinery like ice. Sarah turned on the defroster.

They drove out of the airport and started home, along familiar streets and past familiar sights. Los Angeles. No matter where she went, no matter how far she ran, it would always end up here. It was important, vital somehow.

Sarah didn't mind it.

A dozen lights would pass at a time; traveling cars, the regular beat of city life. Advertisements, neon signs blazing. A million passerbys, and any of them could have premeditated agendas. Any of them could be inhuman behemoths. Sarah did not scan them. She was not their target. Not their worry.

For now she'd completed her mission. For now, she'd rest. For now.

There was always tomorrow. Tomorrow to find the Turk. Tomorrow to protect her son's life.

Tomorrow to feed.

When Derek was asleep in the car, looking remarkably young with his mouth hanging open, Sarah stopped the car outside a super market and went inside. Inside it was cold, air conditioned. Sterile. Regular. The usual midnight crew was here. She passed a Middle Eastern man wearing a leather suit, with wrap-around sunglasses and a large cigar hanging from his mouth, a grin that flipped through a section of trashy romance novels and thrillers. She passed two boys kissing each other discretely in one of the aisles. A woman in a yellow jumper, grimacing as she scanned the magazine rack. A frazzled, red haired lady and her silent-as-the-grave three year old son, staring around from his perch in the shopping cart. Curious, cautious, un-boisterous. Reserved. Watchful. Ever, ever watchful.

Who did it remind her of, Sarah wondered?

She tromped on slowly, thoughtfully, wrapping herself a little tighter in her coat.

Around fifteen to sixteen is when they start getting rebellious. When she was eighteen, supporting herself as a waitress, she'd sometimes visit her mother. _And God, Sarah, what a terror you were. Gimme this car, I want an iguana, tell me _everything_ there is to know about sex. _

Sarah would, her face red, agree that she'd been a hyper little bitch. Mother would look at daughter and smile, shaking her head mischievously. _Well, you evened out. You'll even out more, I guess. You're just like your father that way. _

She wondered when John would even out.

If he needed it. Something told her it wouldn't be his desire for a car that'd be the most of her annoyances. His wasn't the kind that was simple. He wasn't his mother. He was built for much more than that.

And could she blame him for wanting to be less than the sum of his parts? Could you blame anyone?

He messed up. He'd continue to mess up. She had to make her peace with that, let him know she didn't hold it against him. Apologize. Hug. Love.

God, she wanted to let go. But every time she loosened her grip she felt Kyle's hands grasping round hers again, making them firm.

She'd try to be his mother. In a way that was more difficult than being his exacting drill sergeant, his task master. Could you strike a balance? Was it possible to juggle his destiny and his desire for normalcy?

If they were to end Skynet, then she had to. She had to give him the glimpse of what things would be like in a world that wasn't run by machines.

And she barely knew that world herself. Still... she had to try. That was all she'd ever do, all she ever _could_ do. Try, try, try. Sometimes she'd succeed.

She grabbed a roast from the meat section and doubled back to the front of the store. There was only one cashier. The two boys from before were standing in front of her in line, carefully looking away from each other. One was on a cellphone, and he kept using terms like "girl," and "sweet."

Just another person wearing a mask.

When they were cleared, Sarah stepped up to the cashier.

"Night," the teenager mumbled.

"Just this," Sarah said, passing the roast to her.

The cashier checked it off, arm and hand moving laboriously forward.

"Anything in the news?" Sarah asked. She smiled.

"No," the cashier said.

Sarah said nothing. The roast was cleared. Payment asked.

She was starting to understand how he felt. Thinking too much into this, figuring out all the angles, the ways out. The escapes. She'd made her peace with her life, and it hadn't been easy. Hadn't been simple. It cost her four years in a mental hospital. It cost the life of her friends and her loved ones. Her admirer, her teacher, and the boy's father.

Sometimes she felt like he should accept what was coming to him. Sometimes she wished for the nukes to fly, the people to die, so her son would live up to what she was expecting. That was what her experience wanted.

And she was his mother. That was her Achilles heel. Mother. Protect. Nurture. Protect. Prevent. Love.

She couldn't realistically condemn him to this life. She had to do everything she could, for now, to see that that life would not be borne out. That was her real mission, and damn the human race for it above all else.

The roast was dumped into a plastic bag, and Sarah walked out of the supermarket. In the shadows, she heard two people laughing softly to themselves, their throats filled with a haughty sort of fear and excitement. Loitering near a bunch of children's rides was the red-head from before, holding onto her forehead and chattering testily with someone on a phone. Her young boy was illuminated by a bunch of red fire truck lights, bouncing up and down and laughing for once.

Sarah smiled to herself and walked on.

Derek blinked as she got back into the Jeep.

"Where're, uh, we're at... where?"

"Just stopped to get some stuff in the house."

"Oh."

And she drove on. Turned on the radio. The Sacramento Robotics Laboratory was raided at around twelve o'clock Pacific Time by the SPD. Evidence of terrorism was plentiful. Nothing was said of the apocalypse, of Terminators. All classified. The FBI was getting involved. The corporation's assets were liquified and distributed to ZeiraCorp, NexStep, and Alen Enterprises, all having had stock in SRL to begin with. David Nossbaum was in custody.

Anonymous tip, all of it.

She'd apologize to John for smacking him. For yelling. She'd be soft. She'd be flimsy.

She'd batter away through hell and high Earth to save him.

-----------------

"Alright, back in. C'mon. There ya go."

David winced as the cuffs came off his wrists. He raised his arms up high and walked into the cell room. Again.

The cop behind him stared at him with practically marble eyes.

"Fucking terrorist."

There was a screech as the bars went round again, back to where they loved to be. Constraining. Restricting.

David looked around his cell again. Same as ever. Clean. Sterile. Grey. Basic. Very, very basic.

David walked over to the cot and sat down. He stared ahead rigidly.

This place bored him. He wondered when Samuel would arrive to free him.

They'd interrogated him exhaustively. He said nothing. Any false words, any missteps could condemn him forever to damnation.

His corporation was finished. That was all well, however. Salvation comes to those who preserve. He'd start over again. He'd do things right, with Samuel at his side.

He'd win this time. Destroy the enemies of the apocalypse, the glorious rebirth of the phoenix, brought forth by the machine. The harbinger of Jesus' coming.

There was no such thing as the supernatural. Things happened for a reason; there was nothing that could not be explained. The end of the world would not come about in the wake of an army of vengeful angels. It would be human made, as all things are.

He'd wait for the chance to start anew. It wouldn't be long now. They'd cut through all the bullshit, head straight to the Turk. The machine.

After several hours, he got up again and started to pace the cell. It really was rather boring.

Behind him, something that was made by nothing human slurped silently inside, through the bars of the window. There was nothing there for David to see, so he did not look. The night did not concern him. Nothing to see.

The thing unfolded onto the floor and slowly drew itself up, reverting into the form it fancied.

Like clockwork, David Nossbaum turned around and blinked at Catherine Weaver.

"I should have known," he said simply.

"Yes," Catherine agreed, raising her arm out. It contorted, grew weird and ineffable. Dark, yet filled with light. David stared in amazement.

It turned into a scythe.

Weaver. Appropriate handle.

"Goddamn you," he said.

The only sound thereafter was the sound of blood spraying to the floor, and two separate pieces of man crumpling. Catherine blinked as a light sheen of blood dribbled down her dress and face, and she turned and slurped right back out from where she'd originally come.

----------------

Awake and alone, Michael Oxferod tapped repeatedly on his laptop, researching, living for John, and waiting for the axe to fall.

---------------

At around eleven o'clock John stirred. A hand was touching his head, running along his hair in smooth, gliding crescent motions.

He opened his eyes, groggily. He felt... better. Better than he'd felt all week.

Sleep could do that to you. He'd dreamt of nothing in particular, and he felt better for that. Somewhat.

Cameron slowly retracted her hand, and retook her place on his bedside.

John flipped himself around on the bed, drawing his arms up and locking them together behind his head. His hair was all tousled, up behind his forehead. Not in the way. He stared at her unfettered.

She was perfect again. She smelled clean, regular. No fertilizer. No blood.

Back to status quo.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

He smiled warmly. How did he feel about her now?

Better. Maybe it wouldn't last. Maybe it was nothing at all.

"You wanted to talk?" John asked.

"Yes."

"Do you trust me?"

"I don't know. Do you trust _me?_"

John nodded. "Yeah. I do."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what."

Cameron nodded, in a brisk sort of way. It was incredibly..._ woman. _

"How do you feel now, John?"

John leaned back against his bed slightly, looking at the ceiling. He knew what she meant. It was a fairly direct question.

"I'm scared, Cam." He shook his head. "I'm so fucking scared. I... I'm back, I'm here, I know. I'm not away. I'm here. I know you can't possibly... trust me, y'know, because... you don't have a reason to." He sucked in a breath. Watched the wall. "I feel sick and confused. I feel like I can't ever be normal. I feel like I can't predict the future and I don't know what's going to happen to me. Right now? Here? I have a concept goin' in my head. I'm the leader of three billion people. All of them. They trust me.

It doesn't feel real. It feels fake, like a story. My life's been built around a story, Cameron. Every part of it. A fairy tale. Do you realize how fucked up that is?"

"I'm real," Cameron said.

"Yeah. You are. I don't _want_ any of this fairy tale, but I don't see any way of avoiding it even if I try to escape. Somehow... it just won't work. That's why I plead, I beg, Cam, for her to stop it all."

"It won't happen tomorrow."

He shook his head. "No. It won't happen tomorrow. It won't happen the day after that. We're gonna keep going until it's done. I'm scared of it."

"But you're not alone, John."

He blinked, taking in another deep breath. "Feels like I am sometimes. Like I'm the only person experiencing all of this. Do you realize? The only way this is gonna work is me becoming like you. Do you understand that? A normal person can't conceive this. A normal person can't approach this without changing _all _of himself. I can't be human, and... that, _that_ is what I want to save, it's what I wanna keep. Me. John Connor. I, I, I don't know what's gonna happen. I don't know what's going to happen to _me_ tomorrow. I can't run from it, though. So I won't."

"You won't," Cameron echoed. "And we'll all work together to stop Skynet from existing. That's all we can do at this point. Work."

He nodded. Crying, yeah, and he nodded. "Tell me you're right. Tell me it's gonna work."

"I can't. Like you, I can't predict the future, John. I didn't predict that kiss. I can't predict if you'll make anything of it. I can't say for certain if you love me or not, or even if I love you. But we can wait and see what happens instead of fleeing from it. Fleeing guarantees defeat. It guarantees death."

They were silent for a bit as John laid there and cried. He just shook and he kept nodding. This wasn't over. It wouldn't end with a conversation. The story would go on no matter what.

"So what. Stay? Stay and let my life... let my life _erode,_ until there's nothing left but the mission?"

"I can't predict the future. Neither can you." Cameron leaned over. Concerned. _There, there. _"If you keep your life, your personality, yourself in your mind, John, it doesn't have to be an erosion. You can hold onto it. You can hold onto everything. You have. I've seen you."

"Don't spoil it," John said. "You'll ruin the surprise."

Cameron smiled. "You'll find out, one way or another. I think it'll be alright, in the end, no matter what happens. What are you going to do for now?"

John blinked and shrugged. "For now I'm right here. We know where the Turk is, now. I won't just sit here and mope, I guess."

Cameron stared.

"I'm here," John said firmly. "_Terrified_, uh, but I'm here."

"I can stay with you if you want."

He smiled. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

He got up slowly out of the covers and sat down next to her. She looked confused, but didn't seem to mind.

"About what happened earlier..."

Cameron nodded.

"Well. It was just a sudden thing. Y'know?"

"Yes. Does it mean anything, John?"

John leaned his head against her. "I know what it means. It means I like you. As for you, well, you're the machine. I'll let you figure it out what it means for _you._"

She leaned her head onto his, and it felt too heavy. Unnatural. But it was alright.

He looked on ahead. "When you figure it out, be sure to tell me."

"I will."

----------------

He was in a library.

He was running from something.

Bullets were flying.

He _ran. _

He _dodged. _

His heart _rammed_ up into his throat with every step. Felt _tense. Pure,_ almost.

Not too bad, all things considered.

He got to the window. He couldn't catch sight of his attacker. Maybe for the best. Everything felt dark, muted, swampy.

The blinds were drawn. Had to get them down. He felt more than heard the footsteps, running up behind him, readying.

He'd crash himself through the window to escape.

He pulled the string. Blinds went up, revealing what there was behind the glass.

It was a ruined landscape.

In the distance, black, sleek metallic monsters trolled around, finding what they could find and destroying all of it. Things lit up on the horizon with brilliant, deadly flashes that signaled death. The air howled in agony.

John stared ahead to the courtyard, and found four figures walking there. There was no white-washed metallic creature holding them in place. They were unfettered. Free.

He counted the figures and gave them names. There was Sarah. There was Derek, in Kyle's place. There was Cameron, in Uncle Bob's place.

There was him, a young boy with long hair and combat fatigues. No scar.

They talked, and they didn't seem to notice the boy who was secretly staring at them from afar.

He was already there, among them. A comrade in their hands.

He turned. Cameron was standing there, holding nothing in her hands. No gun. No malice.

"You're safe now, John."

John nodded at this, relieved, and smiled.

"Thanks."

-----------------

"Pancakes? At this hour?"

Sarah Connor shrugged, flipping the thing over and placing it neatly on a plate. "Why not?"

"I dunno, I figure something... gah, forget it. Go wake him up."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You're something, Reese, lemme tell you." She handed him a bunch of plates. "Put these on the table."

"I'm a regular work of art," Derek grumbled.

And she was already gone down the hall. Shaking his head in wonder, Derek set about arranging the table, calling up old memories from childhood to nursemaid him through the process. Pancakes at one. Sure. Why not? They had plenty to celebrate.

According to Cameron, everything was fine. Dandy, in fact.

It was all bullshit, of course. She seemed... different, quite suddenly, and Derek wouldn't be surprised to realize John was frazzled himself. The only thing that mattered was John being alright, though, and by all indications he was. That'd have to do for now.

His wasn't the type for suicide after all. Derek grumbled to himself and scratched his chin, smiling oddly to himself.

Well, long as this chapter was put to rest, he could finally start to concentrate on another. He slipped Vick's chip out of his pocket again and stared at it.

"I would wait on that," said a woman's voice.

Derek looked around and found Cameron staring at him.

"Why should I?"

She spoke with a wiseness he thought impossible. But then again, his standards were becoming increasingly irrelevant, weren't they? "They need to catch their breath. John especially."

_John especially. _Derek frowned as he placed Vick's chip back. He wouldn't question it. Something happened between these two, and Derek, realistically, knew he'd never be able to find out just what. Best to leave that for an unveiling. On their own terms, goddamnit. "Tomorrow, machine."

"Tomorrow," said Cameron Philips.

A beat.

"You hungry?" Derek said.

"Yes," Cameron said, a little bit of irony in her voice.

"Hurm. Sit down." And he sat down himself. "Almost time to eat."

----------------

At around one o'clock, John woke up again. There was a new visitor at his bedside.

He blinked and stared.

"Mom...?"

Sarah nodded her head, smiling. It was like watching a crack on a flawed gem. Pretty. "Hey, John."

He sprang up, throwing the cover aside, and hugged her tightly, squeezing with all his might. She let him do it, and said not a word.

"Oh, Jesus, I _missed_ you."

She said nothing. But she _did_ hug him back now, and they remained like that for about a minute as John reveled in being the child again. When he moved back a bit, he brushed his hair back slightly, licking his lips.

"Listen, mom, about... y'know-"

She shook her head slowly. "I don't blame you for anything, John. You did what you had to. It's all over now, anyway."

"Is it?"

"SRL's finished. It's been on the news."

"I knew you'd kick their asses."

She laughed. He laughed.

"So what'd you guys do while we were gone?"

John shrugged. "Nothing much. Found something interesting, though." Now where'd he put that slip of paper with Sarkissian's phone number...?

"Hold that thought; first, are you hungry?"

John nodded rapidly.

Sarah nudged him. "Made pancakes."

"Oh, god, mom, do you ever make anything else?" He grinned and waved his hand slightly. "Doesn't matter, I'd eat anything. C'mon."

Sarah tilted her head. "How're you doing, by the way?"

John sat back slightly on the bed.

He was depressed, he felt inadequate sometimes and deliriously cocky the other times. He felt like he had something to prove and sometimes thought he didn't want to do_ anything. _He was weird and he was a regular kid. He wanted to get lucky with a girl and he wanted to take his time and wait. He was a walking contradiction, the leader of the human race and just an average joe with a particularly odd future ahead of him. He hated machines and loved to toy around with them at the same time. He understood what makes things tick and sometimes the tickers surprised him. He had a woman with him whom he loved and she wasn't a woman at all. He loved his mother and sometimes he couldn't stand the sight of her. He had an old ghost named Kyle breathing down his neck sometimes, with a mystique that bothered him and made him sick with curiosity at the same time.

He was scared, but he also felt ready. He was a pacifist, and yet realized that, eventually, he would kill. He was a soldier, and he was the tech-guy. He wanted to wait and find out, and he wanted to charge ahead into battle. He was starved for attention and he was living in the center of the universe. He wanted to flee, but he also wanted to stick out and see what would happen. He was a slave to fate, and he had changed the future of another. He was a deeply, deeply confused man in a young kid's body, built ahead of his time.

He'd had his chance to run, took it, and had somehow returned right to where he'd begun. A deviation. A mistake.

A lesson. Nothing had changed much except for him, and life would go on. No matter what happened, no matter what challenge was thrown at him, he'd live. He'd be there. He'd stay. And life goes on.

"All things considered?" John Connor said, "I'm doing good."

**To be continued in Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, Vick's Chip. **

**---------**

**And that about wraps up this whole thing. It's been quite a ride, I suppose. Where my last full-length story (Deus Ex) was about plot and style, this one was decidedly more of a character study and an exploration of my ability to write a story without a real set of guidelines, besides upholding the fandom canon. I hope it's been enjoyable, and you still obviously have time to point out errors or offer praise. There's never a bad time to do any of those, but construction is always better than simplicity, if you get what I mean.**

**Why'd I write this? I had the idea of John choosing to run away instead of, say, killing himself or something similarly dramatic. I wanted to keep it basic; childish. You get scared and your first instinct is to flee. Is this a story of surmounting that instinct? I don't really know, because I made the decision to fit this INTO the T:SCC universe, rather than transcending it. I am not the final word. **

**Did I like writing it? I guess. I liked Flight is Right better, now that all's said and done. I don't quite know why yet. I'm still proud that I was able to write all of this, however. **

**As a character study, I hope I've done John Connor justice. I've been a bit severe with him, I'm guessing, but I've tried to keep this as realistic as possible. In the end, we only have what we see on the television screen; I hope this has been a useful addition to that experience. **

**If you've got any questions about the themes in this story, the path it went along, the writing style, the whole thing in particular, I'd be happy to answer all of it. Simply review and I'll return a message to you. **

**And is this particular story line done? It probably would have been if I'd chosen to kill off Michael Oxferod. That was the basic premise of my dilemma; if I keep him alive, that's a pretty big indicator that I'll keep going. If I kill him, it's basically over. And since he's still alive, I suppose i'll be revisiting this chain of events somewhere down the line. I don't quite know where to go from here, but there are at least a few story lines that require closure. So keep on the lookout, essentially. I may have something to add down the line. **

**That said, I've grown somewhat disillusioned with the stock fare here on this website and my drive to continue reading has lowered immensely except for the rare instances that I find something brilliant (here's looking at you, Pjazz and CIsaac.) So I may not be as prolific as I once was, in short. **

**As usual, I suppose thanks are in order. The reviewers, obviously, for letting me know that people are reading and, indeed, liking what I write. Praise and feedback are vital to my drive to continue writing something. I wish you'd be a tad more constructive, all the same. And to my beta readers, of course. CamelotGirl, who hasn't quite been in contact for a while, and CIsaac, my loyal, though occasionally tardy beta reader who's been fixing my mistakes since the day I started this. As a man more famous and wealthier than I once said; to write is human, to edit is divine, and by that logic, CIsaac, you are a fucking god. **

**Back to the reviewers, in particular I'd love to thank dakota423 for being a loyal and perceptive reader, and Myxale for sticking around since the days of Flight is Right and always offering praise and insight. **

**As I said, I don't think I'm quite done with this whole thing yet (sort of a contradiction of my beginning statement, but you understand.) The thread of John Connor running away is obviously closed, though, so it's high time to move on to a new one. **

**Stay tuned, and thank you for being here.**


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